


Better Late Than Never

by whelvenwings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Coming of Age, Fledgling Castiel, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-29
Updated: 2014-07-29
Packaged: 2018-02-10 21:20:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2040609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whelvenwings/pseuds/whelvenwings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Dean first sees Castiel, he's clinging on for dear life - and things never really get any easier. In fact, they get a lot harder; Dean's worst enemy isn't always the monkey bars.</p><p>Bound together year on year by the ritual pact of being a Guardian Angel, Dean and Cas grow close, showing loyalty and bravery in the face of danger. But will they ever find the courage to admit their true feelings for each other - and will it be too late by the time they do?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt for this fic was a totally awesome piece of art by the gorgeous [castihalo](http://castihalo.tumblr.com) ^-^ find it [here](http://castihalo.tumblr.com/post/92333798845/thanks-cas-for-what-i-forgot-to-bring-you)!  
> She also did the art at the beginning - find it [here](http://castihalo.tumblr.com/post/93252380874/based-on-this-amazing-fic-by-whelvenwings) \o/

The first time Dean saw Castiel, he was only nine years old.

He was out at the playground, swinging his way across the monkey bars and feeling the metal burning cold against his fingers. His dad was taking his little brother to the doctor – Sam had a nasty cough, and it wasn’t getting any better in the iron Wisconsin winter weather. Dean was waiting in the park near the doctor’s surgery, trying to tamp down the feeling that it was his own fault that Sam had got sick. He’d kept all the windows closed, and made them both hot food whenever he could, but still…

Something small and light caught his eye, floating down in front of his nose. Squinting at it cross-eyed, Dean could see that it was a feather. A small, grey feather.

Still clinging on to the monkey bars, Dean watched the feather float slowly down to the floor – and then he looked up.

Lying on top of the monkey bars, peering down at him through one of the gaps, was a small, blue-eyed boy.

Dean yelped, and before he knew what he was doing, he’d let go of the monkey bar. He shut his eyes tight, curling his legs up to his chest, waiting for the painful impact with the tarmac below – and waiting, and waiting, and waiting some more.

“You can – you can open your eyes,” said a small voice.

Hesitantly, Dean peeked out through semi-shut eyelids. His eyes widened when he looked down: the ground was still far away, but he wasn’t holding on to anything at all – was he hooked on something that was keeping him from falling? He looked up, and saw that the blue-eyed boy on top of the monkey bars was gone.

Dean, caught in midair, waved his arms around and tried not to panic. He didn’t really like heights; the monkey bars were the worst bit of the playground for him. His dad said that meant he should do them more often, so that he wouldn’t be scared of them anymore.

“Hey!” he called out, to no one in particular. The playground was deserted. Except –

“It’s okay,” said that same small voice, from behind him. Kicking his legs, Dean tried to swivel himself round; when that failed, he twisted his neck as far as it would go. Hovering next to him, with one small hand pressed against his shoulder, was the blue-eyed boy.

“You!” Dean said.

“Hello,” said the boy. He looked nervous, biting his lip, but his hand was steady. “I’m sorry I made you fall. I was just watching.”

“Yeah, uh, don’t you think we have bigger problems?” Dean demanded, feeling his t-shirt flapping against his skinny stomach in the breeze. The boy looked confused, so Dean gestured down at himself with his eyes wide. “Um, we’re stuck in the middle of the air?”

“Oh!” the boy said, with a small, sheepish smile. They began gently floating downwards, light as a feather. Light as _the_ feather, the grey one that had fallen in front of Dean’s nose and alerted him to the strange boy’s presence, the one resting on the ground right next to where Dean came to land. He stooped down and scooped it up gently, holding it in one hand.

Looking up, he saw that the other boy’s smile had faded. He was watching Dean with a bright-eyed, wary expression. He seemed tense in a way that Dean didn’t understand: his legs looked relaxed but his shoulders were taut and prepared, as though his escape plan were not running, but rather…

Dean gasped.

“Is this yours?” he whispered, holding up the feather between two fingers and one thumb, twisting it around so that the downy barbs were ruffled by the wind. His other hand strayed towards the small knife tucked into the sheath in the waistband of his jeans. If hunting had taught him anything, it was a total lack of trust in strangers, or strange things, or _any_ things, if he were honest.

The boy pressed his lips together for a moment in a pout of indecision; then he cast his eyes downwards resignedly, and with a soft _whish_ he opened his wings.

Dean stared. The wings were wide and grey, drooping slightly at the tips.

“What… what _are_ you?” he asked warily.

“I’m Castiel,” the boy said. “My name is Castiel.”

Dean opened his mouth to reply – but then his father’s face appeared in his mind, wearing his sternest expression.

“Yeah, well, are we gonna fight, then?” Dean demanded. Castiel looked confused.

“You want to fight me?” he said, sounding bewildered. “Why?”

“Well, because… because, you’re…” Dean said, struggling to find the right words. “I don’t know, I guess because I’m supposed to fight the bad guys?”

The other boy’s nose wrinkled.

“I’m not a bad guy,” he said. “I’m Castiel.”

“Yeah, well, I have a knife, so. You better be careful,” Dean warned, pulling it out of his waistband and waving it threateningly in Castiel’s direction. Castiel took a step back, raising his small hands instinctively in a placating, defensive gesture.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said. “Why d’you want to hurt me?”

“I can’t trust anything you say,” said Dean firmly. “You better leave, or I’ll stick you with this knife.”

Castiel looked into his eyes for a long, long moment, before starting to back away.

“Fine,” he said – a little sadly, Dean thought. Castiel shook out his wings, and gave an experimental flap.

“Whoa,” Dean said. “You’re like an _eagle_.”

The boy looked up, his eyes wide with surprise. They were very, very blue, Dean thought.

“You… like them?” the boy said, sounding confused. One of the wings twitched slightly as Dean watched. He didn’t seem threatening at all, Dean thought to himself. Maybe it would be OK if they just talked, for a little bit? He’d keep his knife out, of course. And he wasn’t putting anyone in danger but himself, so it was OK.

“Yeah, I do!” Dean said, but then blinked and looked around the park. His father wasn’t in sight, but it was best to be on the safe side. “Maybe you should put them away, though.”

The boy’s bottom lip went stiff with the effort of holding it steady, Dean saw, as he tucked his wings away and they disappeared from view.

“It’s not because I don’t like ‘em!” he said hurriedly. “Just, if anyone saw you… most people aren’t used to seeing a kid with… you know, um… _wings._ ” He whispered the last word with a nervous glance around them. Castiel’s small smile returned.

“I know _that_ , preposterous!” he said.

“What did you just call me?”

“Preposterous. It’s what a human calls another human to tease them, right?” Castiel asked, a little shyly, but with his blue eyes lit up with excitement.

“Ah, I’d probably just call me ‘silly’ or ‘dumbass’ next time, or somethin’,” Dean said. “Hey, uh…how comes you have wings, anyway? Are you a…” Dean stopped himself before saying the word _monster_. Looking into the boy’s open, curious face, Dean thought that even if he weren’t human, he was something far from a monster. That was probably what the thing wanted him to think, Dean reminded himself.

The boy smiled.

“Because I’m an angel,” he said simply, the tops of his wings poking out over his shoulders.

Dean frowned.

“An angel? What, like… a guardian angel?” he said curiously. The boy tilted his head sideways.

“A guardian?” he said.

“Yeah, you know. My mom… uh. She used to say, there are angels watching over us. Are you one of them?”

Dean could see the boy thinking, holding himself very still as he decided what to say. His blue eyes fixed on Dean’s, and they seemed to see right into him, their keen curiosity softening to something kinder, more personal. Dean shifted his weight from one foot to another uncomfortably.

“I could be,” the boy said eventually. “Do you think _you_ need a guardian angel?”

“Me?” Dean demanded. “What, do I look like a baby to you?”

“No,” Castiel replied. “No, I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just…”

“I don’t need help from some dumb goody-goody angel, yeah? I’m _fine_. My dad looks after us pretty good and I take care of Sammy, so.” Dean shrugged truculently.

“Oh,” said Castiel. His shoulders seemed to sag, and he was looking down at the ground, tracing his eyes over the tarmac and watching the light glisten off the oily black surface. “That’s good. I might… I should go home, now.”

He shivered slightly, and his wings reappeared behind him.

“It was nice to meet you,” he said. “You have the most beautiful soul ever and I have seen a lot of souls so I am an expert. I hope you have a very good life.”

“What? Wait, wait!” Dean said quickly, as the boy’s shoulders tensed. “Am I gonna see you again?”

“No,” said Castiel. “Don’t worry, I won’t bother you any more. I just wanted to look at you up close, ‘cause I wondered if your eyes were nice.”

“Dude. I…” Dean said, and then coughed and scuffed his feet on the tarmac and asked, “Uh… are they?”

Castiel smiled, a little smile with sadness caught at the corners.

“Yes,” he said. “Definitely.”

Dean blinked.

“Listen, um, uh, Cas… Cas… Cas-tiel? If you… if you wanted to come here again and like, I dunno, we could play a game or something, maybe tomorrow or whatever. It’s no big deal if you’re busy doing… um, like, heaven stuff?”

The sorrow in Castiel’s smile was swept away, like whispy, clinging cobwebs being brushed out of untouched corners; like the shutters in a dark room being thrown open. Watching him, Dean found himself grinning, too.

“Shut up. Whatever. You don’t have to come.”

“I’ll be here,” Castiel promised. “Tomorrow.”

“Yeah, you better be,” Dean said. “And… and I’ve still got this, yeah?” He waved his knife, keeping the blade pointing down towards the ground. “Don’t try and pull anything. I can take care of myself.”

“I know, I know,” Castiel said. “I will not try to pull anything.”

“Well, good.” There was a drawn-out pause; Dean stared at the angel, trying to figure him out. His expressions looked too fast and too intense to be feigned. It wasn’t as though Dean _liked_ him… but he seemed to be trustworthy. “M’name’s Dean, by the way.”

“Dean,” Castiel said. “Dean Dean Dean Dean.”

“Ha. Cas, Cas, Cas, Cas, Cas,” Dean replied, not entirely sure what they were doing. Castiel laughed a little, and it was unexpected enough to make Dean giggle. Castiel watched him for a moment, wide-eyed, and then laughed again, his eyes crinkling up at the corners. Dean reached out and pushed him lightly on the shoulder.

“You’re silly, Cas,” he said. Castiel cocked his head, looking like a little ruffle-feathered sparrow with his brown hair sticking up in all directions.

“You are a… dumbass, Dean,” he replied, considering the insult carefully before using it. Belatedly, he reached out and pushed Dean’s shoulder too, in the same place that he’d held onto earlier to keep them both aloft.

“Man, you need to come up with some original insults.”

“Ass. Ass stupid. Stupid butt head butt.” Castiel watched Dean laughing, bending over a little with the force of his giggles. Encouraged, Castiel continued, “Silly butt dumb, ass head. Ass butt.”

“Assbutt?”

“Assbutt,” Castiel confirmed solemnly. Dean snorted and shook his head, wrapping his arm around one of the cool metal struts that supported the monkey bars and looking out over the park. He froze at the sight of two figures, one large and one small, making their way towards him.

“Oh, shoot, my dad’s coming,” he said, quickly tucking his knife back into the waistband of his jeans. “You should probably scoot. No, wait, he’ll see you disappear. Just… stay here, OK? And act normal.”

“I will stay here and act normal,” Castiel confirmed, watching Dean walk away. “See you tomorrow, Dean.”

“Sure thing, Cas. Bye,” Dean said quickly, running over to meet his father, who was tugging Sam along by the hand.

“Everything OK with Sammy?” Dean asked breathlessly as he approached. John Winchester nodded and pointed in the direction of the monkey bars.

“Who’s your… friend?”

“What? He’s not my friend, he’s just…” Dean swivelled, and groaned internally. Apparently Castiel’s idea of behaving normally was holding on to one of the monkey bars with both hands, completely unmoving, his expression determined. “I just talked to him a bit. What did the doctor say?”

“Said it’s just a cough,” Sam whispered, his throat sounding raw. He let go of his father’s hand and reached his arms out to Dean, who picked him up. “Didn’t like him. He had the coldest listener on my chest.”

“The coldest… you mean, a stethoscope?” Dean said. Sam nodded. “Wait, did it feel really cold?”

“Mm-hmm,” Sam said, coughing a little into his hand.

“Oh, man, you’re so lucky!” Dean said. “Stethoscopes only feel cold if you’re a _really cool_ person, Sammy.”

Sam’s eyes went wide.

“But it was _so_ cold!” he exclaimed, and then coughed loudly.

“Well, I guess that makes you the coolest person ever,” Dean said, smiling. His arms were starting to ache, so he put Sam down; grizzling a little, Sam reached for his brother’s hand.

“Let’s go, boys,” John said, clapping Dean on the shoulder, his eyes still trained on Castiel as he started to turn away. Throwing a quick glance over his shoulder, Dean could see that Cas still hadn’t moved. His face was a little pink. “Does that kid need help?”

“Huh? Oh, no,” Dean said, trying to think fast. “He, um, he likes to hang like that. He wants… he’s trying to be a bat.”

“Bats hang upside-down,” Sam whispered. Dean nodded, but pressed a finger to his lips.

“Alright, boys,” John grunted after a moment, turning round. “Let’s get back to the motel.”

Dean breathed a quiet, shaky sigh of relief.

“What’s this?” Sam asked, pulling his hand away from Dean’s with something soft and fluffy clasped in his tiny fingers. Dean reached out quickly and snatched it, wary eyes fixed on his father’s retreating back.

“It’s a feather I found,” he said, tucking it into his pocket. “It’s precious, OK? Don’t touch it.”

Sam’s mouth went small and a little wobbly, but he nodded. Dean took his hand again, and ruffled his hair gently.

“You know who gets Fruit Loops when we get back?” he said, starting to walk. Sam shook his head.

“No, who?”

“Really, really cool people,” said Dean. Sam’s smile returned; he gave a deep, racking cough before saying excitedly,

“The stethoscote said I’m cool!”

Dean squeezed his brother’s hand.

“Fruit Loops for you, then,” he said with a smile.

“And for you,” said Sam firmly, marching along on his sturdy little legs, trying to keep up with Dean, who was trying to keep up with his father. “You’re cool too.”

Dean grinned down at his brother, and pulled him onwards.

The feather burned like a brand in his pocket the whole way home. That night, he tucked it safely into his box of shotgun ammo. It rested there, a tiny twist of matte grey amongst the shining brass, like the smoke from a snuffed candle amongst a crowd of flames: it was a secret, a promise of cool darkness with a brush of white at the hilt of the shaft.

Dean thought about it until he fell asleep, and dreamed of eagles and blue eyes.

**

Dean didn’t go to the park the next day.

When he woke up, his father had already left. Sam was lying on his bed, his breath coming in wheezing clutches of air. His face was pale, his lips thin and colourless.

“Sammy?” Dean said, leaning over his sleeping brother and shaking his shoulder gently. Sam didn’t stir. “Sam, wake up. I think we have to go back to the doctor.”

Sam lay still, his chest barely rising and falling. Dean made a hesitant effort to drag him upright, quickly abandoned when Sam’s head lolled and he seemed to choke on his own saliva, coughing viciously. Dean winced.

“OK, well, we can have breakfast first, then,” he said. “But we’re going after, OK?”

Dean poured out the cereal and took the bowl over to Sam’s bed; they’d long since run out of milk.

“Just a couple of bites,” he said cajolingly to his brother’s inert form. “Just… eat… just eat this…”

Sam didn’t respond. Dean gulped back his tears and reached out to feel his little brother’s forehead.

“You’re too hot,” he said conversationally, trying to keep his voice light. “We’re just going to open this window, and we’ll get you an ice pack, maybe, or something, something to cool you down…”

The day passed in a haze of cold cloths against Sam’s forehead and hot food pressed into his mouth – the last of the soup that John had bought for them. Sam swallowed it with difficulty, his breathing ever more laboured. Dean had tried lifting his brother out of bed again, but he wasn’t strong enough and almost cracked his brother’s head against the bedside cabinet. He’d just have to wait for his father to get home – but that could be days, since this was the start of a hunt… would he come home soon enough? If Dean called 911, would he get in trouble? He’d have to call if Sam wasn’t better by tomorrow, Dean decided. There was a payphone outside and he was sure he’d be able to scrounge some loose change. Did you even need money to call the ambulance? Dean wasn’t sure. Maybe he should go and try to find the money now, just in case. But that would mean leaving Sam alone, and what if he got much worse while Dean was away? What if he –

Dean, sitting hunched at the bottom of Sam’s bed, dashed the tears out of his eyes angrily and sniffed.

At least there hadn’t been any monsters knocking at their door. He glanced over at the shotgun, just to make sure that it was still there. It was loaded, and if he needed more shells, he had plenty in his box of ammunition – along with…

Dean scrunched up his eyes and pressed his hands against them.

“Oh, man,” he said, in a low, weary voice. “I was supposed to be at the park. I’m sorry, Cas, I was supposed to be at the park with you.”

There was a little whooshing noise.

“That’s okay, Dean,” said a bright little voice. “We can play here, instead.”

“What the –”  Dean leapt to his feet, furiously wiping his eyes. “Cas?!”

“Hello, Dean,” said Castiel happily, his wings outspread and twitching behind him. As Dean watched, a single feather fell off the left-hand one and spiralled to the motel floor. It seemed to glow with a soft blue light against the sickly green carpet.

“How did you find me?” Dean demanded. He reached instinctively for his knife, but it was still tucked under his pillow; whispering a curse word that he’d heard his father using under his breath, Dean stood up.

Castiel smiled.

“When you pray to me, I can hear you,” he said.

“Praying? I don’t pray,” Dean snapped, backing slowly towards his bed.

“Yes, you do. You just did. You said you were sorry, because you were supposed to be at the park. I was glad you called me because I couldn’t find you and I was a tiny bit worried and I suppose it’s because this place has a lot of wardings that I couldn’t find you at first but I was worried.” Cas folded his hands neatly. “But now I have found you.”

“Yeah… yeah, you found me,” Dean said, sitting down on his own bed and fumbling under his pillow. Castiel, meanwhile, was looking down at Sam on the bed.

“Is this your brother?” he asked, shuffling a step closer.

“You get back!” Dean said loudly, and Castiel jerked away, surprised.

“He does not look very healthy,” the angel pointed out, his little eyebrows pinched together in worry.

“Neither will you, if you don’t back off,” Dean said in his best growl, finally finding his knife and pointing it straight at Castiel’s heart. Castiel, however, did not step away.

“He is not healthy,” he repeated anxiously.

“Yeah, nice spot, man! I totally hadn’t noticed that my brother has two tons of phlegm in his lungs and I can’t get him to the doctor because I’m not strong enough and I don’t know whether I can call the ambulance or not, and…” Dean broke off, taking a shaky breath and looking down at his shoes whilst he gathered himself together.

“I can fix him,” Cas said in a small voice.

“What?” snapped Dean.

“I could fix his lungs, if you want,” he said, looking at Dean hopefully. “Angels can heal.”

“You can…” Dean swallowed hard, and looked down at his brother. Sam’s hair was plastered to his head, a combination of sweat and water from the cloth that Dean had been pressing there all afternoon. When he breathed in, the noise was like bubble-wrap being popped.

“You – you could fix him,” Dean said, more to himself than to Castiel, but the other boy answered anyway.

“Yes, I could. It would be very easy. I just have to touch him with my hand!”

Dean threw a glance over at Castiel. The angel looked slightly flushed with excitement, smiling slightly and wearing an encouraging expression.

“I don’t know if I can trust you,” Dean said hoarsely. “I don’t even really know you…”

Suddenly, he stood up. In one quick, efficient movement, he cut a small slit in the tip of his left index finger.

“Heal me first,” he said, holding out his finger determinedly. “Prove you can.”

Castiel put out a hand hesitantly, reaching for Dean’s. At the last moment, Dean pulled back.

“Does it hurt?” he asked tentatively, then frowned. “Don’t answer that,” he said. “Just do it.”

Castiel pressed his lips together, reached out his short arm and took hold of Dean’s hand, covering the top of Dean’s finger with two of his own. Dean, eyes closed and muscles tense, waited for a flash of white light or a burning pain, or perhaps both.

“Dean… it’s done,” Castiel said. Dean cracked open one eye cautiously; Cas was watching him with a nervous expression on his face. “Did I do it correctly?”

Dean inspected his finger carefully. There was still blood on it, but when he pressed the pad of his thumb against the place where the cut had been, he felt only smooth skin.

“It worked,” he whispered. “You did it.”

Castiel’s wings fluttered a little in excitement.

“I did it,” he repeated, stamping from foot to foot happily. “I did it. Can I fix your brother, now?”

Dean was still staring down at his finger.

“What? Uh, yeah, yes… please,” Dean added hurriedly, moving back over to the side of Sam’s bed. Cas leaned forwards and put the tips of his fingers against Sam’s forehead. He frowned.

“He is very not healthy,” he said gravely.

“Right, but you can fix him, yeah?” Dean demanded. “You can make him better?”

“Yes,” said Cas simply. “Be quiet.”

Dean opened his mouth to argue, and then closed it again. Castiel’s face was scrunched in concentration, his brow furrowed. Dean chewed nervously at one of his fingernails, and rocked forward onto his toes.

“Is this going to take a long time?” he asked. “I could get you a chair, or…”

“It is done,” Castiel said suddenly, pulling away from Sam.

Leaning over his little brother, Dean could see that his colour was already better: his cheeks had little spots of pink, blooming like roses on the skin that that had before been pale as plaster and sticky with sweat.

“Sam?” Dean said, with a little catch in his voice. Sam didn’t wake, but he sighed deeply and cleanly before rolling over, his mouth open, snoring slightly. He looked relaxed, and healthy.

Dean pressed his lips together to stop them trembling. Cas was watching him curiously.

“Did I do it wrong?” Castiel said after a moment. Dean shook his head furiously.

“No, no, you did good,” he said, a little breathlessly. “I was just… I was so scared that Sam was gonna die and I wouldn’t be able to do anything, and… and now he’s OK, so…” Dean gulped. Without looking at Cas, he reached out and pulled the angel’s hand into a firm grip. Castiel looked down at their joined hands, then up to Dean’s face, before following Dean’s lead and looking down at Sam, sleeping peacefully on the bed.

“Thank you,” Dean whispered.

“You’re welcome,” Castiel murmured back. Glancing over at him, Dean thought he saw Castiel’s wings glowing even more than usual: they were raised above his shoulders, twitching a little with pride and excitement. Dean watched them for a moment, thinking hard.

“You know, I was thinking about what we were talking about,” he said, after a while. “About guardian angels.”

Castiel pulled his hand away from Dean, looking quizzical.

“You said you did not need one, because you aren’t a baby,” Castiel said, using his informative tone. Dean nodded.

“Yeah, I said that,” he muttered. “But listen, I was thinking. I guess it couldn’t hurt,” Dean said with a shrug of his thin shoulders.

“You want me to be your guardian?” Castiel said slowly, and Dean paused for a moment before nodding.

“But, uh, how… would it work? Would you need paying or something, because we don’t have a lot of…”

“No, that’s fine. I don’t need money. I have to ask my brother, but I think I’ll just… I’ll watch over you,” the boy said solemnly.

Dean fiddled with the hem of his t-shirt.

“All the time?” he said, with a squint. “Because sometimes I like to lick my plate. And sometimes I play games on the computer that are kinda… they have princesses in ‘em…”

“Only some of the time,” the boy assured him. Dean found himself grinning. Suddenly, he was aware that he was still holding his knife in one hand. He relaxed his tight grip on the handle, but didn’t let go.

“So, does that mean I get to see you again? Because, you know,” Dean said, “if you’re my angel, I think it’s the rules.”

Castiel nodded.

“I can come tomorrow?” he said, flicking the tips of his wings up excitedly.

“Oh, cool,” Dean said, trying to sound airy and unconcerned. “We’ll be here, probably.”

“I’ll come back here, then.”

“Hey, wait!” Dean called, as the boy unfurled his wings and shivered the feathers into place, ready for flight.

“I should get home,” Castiel confessed. “I have been gone from Heaven since this morning.”

Dean ducked his head guiltily.

“Yeah. Sorry about that, Cas. Hey, uh, Cas?”

“Yes, Dean?”

“Cas, if my dad knew about this, he’d kill me, so I just gotta ask. I can… I can trust you, right?”

Castiel paused, then took a step closer, bringing himself within easy range of Dean’s knife. He looked down at the sharp blade, blinked, and then looked up at Dean.

“If I can trust you,” Castiel said, “then you can trust me.”

Dean swallowed hard and nodded, and then let the knife fall down to the floor.

“Don’t come when my dad’s around,” he muttered. “He really wouldn’t like me hanging out with you.”

Castiel smiled and reached out a hand to hold Dean’s, squeezing it between his small, pink fingers. He didn’t say anything at all; after a few moments, Dean cleared his throat and gently extricated his hand.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said.

Castiel’s wings juddered in anticipation, and then with a single flap, he was gone.

Dean picked up the feather that he’d left on the carpet. It was slightly bigger than the last one; Dean tucked it into his ammo box after running his fingers up and down the softly glowing barbs. It was beautiful, Dean thought, and it wasn’t even one of the biggest feathers on the tips of Cas’ wings. He wondered briefly if Cas would ever let him touch them. They looked awesome, and kind of soft.

On the bed, Sam started to stir. Sitting up, he stretched and took a long, relieved inhale of air.

“I feel better,” he informed his brother. Dean smiled.

“Thanks, Cas,” he said quietly, wondering if that counted as a prayer.

**

“Dean, Dean, Dean, Dean, Dean, Dean, Dean!”

Dean could hear Castiel approaching their motel room at a fantastic speed; one moment his name was being called from miles away out of the open window, and the next…

“Dean!” Castiel landed messily on Dean’s bed, getting a little tangled in one of his wings and rolling onto the floor. He bounced up again almost immediately.

“Cas!” Dean said, with a grin. “What’s up?”

It was another slow, slow day, waiting for John to return from a hunt. Sam was taking a nap, still a little exhausted after his illness; in addition, they had mostly run out of food, and sleeping was better than being awake when the hunger pains started.

“So I talked to my brother Gabriel –”

“Oh, the one with the donkey?” Dean asked. Castiel narrowed his eyes in confusion. “You know, in the Jesus story, he rides a donkey. Or maybe he gives someone a donkey. Or does Jesus ride the donkey?”

Castiel brushed the questions aside with an impatient sweep of his little hand.

“I asked him about guardian angels, and he told me how to make it official!” Cas said delightedly. “It’s very easy, I think we could do it right now if you wanted to.”

“Official?” Dean said warily, instinctively cautious. “What kind of official?”

“Just… official for you and me,” Cas said. “Like a pact.”

Dean’s expression brightened.

“Cool!” he said. “What do we have to do?”

Cas brought his right wing around and looked it over for a moment, his tongue poking out of his mouth. Then he reached out and plucked a single feather from the bottom edge; it was longer and darker than either of the feathers Dean already had.

“You have to put a little blood on here,” Castiel said. “Prick your finger like before, and then I’ll heal it for you, Dean. And then we have to burn it.”

“The blood makes sense… like blood brothers, I guess. And then… burn it?” Dean repeated incredulously, reaching out to take the feather. “Are you sure that’s what your brother said?”

Castiel blushed a little.

“Actually, he said we’d have to do a lot of things,” he said. “But my brother likes to play tricks on me. I think this is the real one. And even if it’s not, it makes it real for us.”

Dean nodded slowly.

“It sounds like a good plan,” he said. “But we can’t do it in here, in case we set fire to something. We have to be careful around fire.”

Castiel nodded seriously.

“We could go to the park,” he suggested.

Dean nodded.

“I don’t know if I can make it tonight, though,” he said worriedly.

“That’s OK, we can do it any time,” Cas said with a smile. “Gabriel said that we should do it once a year, just to be sure that we keep the pact.”

“Once a year?” Dean said thoughtfully. “You know, um. It’s actually my birthday in two days’ time. So maybe we could do it then?”

Castiel’s wings shivered happily. “Is a birthday a good thing?” he said.

Dean frowned.

“Sure it is!” he said. “It’ll be a good way to celebrate. I’ll meet you in the park at midnight, OK? I’ll sneak out. My dad should be home by then, so he can watch over Sammy. And if not, I’ll… pray to you, and tell you that we have to do it somewhere round here. Behind the motel somewhere.”

Castiel beamed.

“That sounds like an excellent plan!” he said. He walked over to where Sam was sleeping, his robe rustling. “Is your brother all better?”

“Yeah,” Dean said, following Cas and standing next to Sam’s bed. “Yeah, he is.” He hesitated before adding, “Thank you again, Cas. I owe you one.”

Cas turned to him.

“You can’t owe your guardian angel,” he said seriously. “It’s just my job.”

“Well… OK,” Dean said reluctantly, “but I can still be grateful, right?”

Castiel smiled.

“Yes, that’s fine,” he said.

Dean punched him lightly on the arm.

“Thanks, then,” he said.

They played together until Sam woke up, strange make-believe games about the people walking past the motel window. The quiet peace that Dean felt with Cas next to him was altogether new, and startling in how natural it was. Spending time with Cas felt like sinking into a warm bath, or eating hot, sweet pie. Dean could almost forget their slightly dismal surroudings, the smell of old cigarettes, the damp climbing up one wall of the room, the stains on the carpet.

Cas made the room light up – in a glowing, smokily electric kind of way that Dean felt himself becoming familiar with.

**

“Cas?” Dean hissed. The night was mild, and the park was lit up by gentle moonlight. The stars were bright and hard, like scarred nicks in the skin of the great dark beast of the night.

As soon as Dean spoke, he heard a familiar rustling; he turned, and found Cas standing beside him with a light-eyed, slightly mischievous expression on his face.

“Hello, Dean,” said Cas in a low voice. “Did you bring the feather?”

“Yeah, I got it,” Dean whispered, holding out the feather that Castiel had selected and plucked for the occasion. He pointed his flashlight towards Cas, who squinted against the beam.

“We should do it now, Dean,” Castiel said. “You’re cold.”

Dean nodded and sat down, leaning his back against one of the poles of the monkey bars; Cas followed his lead, crossing his legs neatly in front of him on the cold tarmac. Dean handed him the feather and then reached behind him, unsheathing his knife. As quickly as before, he cut a neat little line across his fingertip; Cas held out the feather, and Dean squeezed it between his thumb and forefinger. When he let go, there was a red print, slightly smeared, sticking together some of the fluffy barbs.

“Good?” Dean asked, clenching his jaw so that his teeth wouldn’t chatter.

Castiel nodded, twisting his feather between his fingers wonderingly.

“Good,” he agreed. “I will heal your hand.”

“Nah, leave it,” Dean said, putting his finger into his mouth. “It’ll heal on its own.”

Castiel looked bemused but transferred his attention back to the feather, obviously deciding not to argue.

“I will light it now.”

“Together,” Dean said, reaching into his pocket and bringing out a lighter. He flicked it into life, and raised it to the top of the feather, not quite letting it touch. “This won’t hurt you, will it?” he said. Castiel shook his head with a small smile.

“No, Dean,” he said. “Not at all.”

Dean nodded, and swallowed.

“You ready?” he said, looking into Cas’ eyes. The light of the flame put an impish sparkle in their corners – or perhaps that was just the excitement of being out here, secretly, with Dean.

“Yes, Dean,” Castiel said.

“On three, then. You do… whatever angels do… and I’ll light the top, OK? Three, two, one…”

Dean touched the lighter to the top of the feather, just before he was half-blinded by a column of white light branding itself across his vision. With a muffled yelp, he slapped his hands over his eyes; it felt as though a laser had been scored across his eyeballs. When the barcode of white pain had faded a little, he tried opening his eyes; Castiel was sitting looking sheepish, still holding the feather in one hand. When Dean moved closer, he could see that it had turned to dust, still caught in the structure of a feather by the swiftness and intensity of the heat that had consumed it.

Dean blew gently on the feather, and it disintegrated. The ashes were scattered into the still, icy air, soon lost to sight. Dean breathed out slowly.

“I guess we did it,” he said, after a moment of staring out into the darkness.

“We did it,” Castiel confirmed. He looked at Dean, his eyes shining. “I’m your guardian angel, Dean. Until next year.”

Dean grinned.

“We’re gonna have such a badass time,” he said, and then he stopped. “Cas,” he said suddenly. “When we leave Wisconsin… when I have to go somewhere else… can you come too, or are you stuck here?”

Cas smiled.

“I can come with you, Dean,” he said. “As long as you want.”

Dean returned the smile, and looked up at the stars.

“Forever,” he said, before he could stop himself. He was safe with Cas watching over him, and his brother was safe, too. He took a deep, cold breath of air. He wanted to feel like this forever.

“Happy birthday, Dean,” said Cas quietly.


	2. Chapter 2

The first time Dean cried because of Cas, he was only ten years old.

Dean was sitting in the motel room that John Winchester had chosen for his boys – not a bad one, this time, with its own television, unchipped purple walls and a comfortable yellow sofa as well as the beds and bathroom. He had hoped that tonight, perhaps, his father would come home; it was the first day of a hunt, but still, it was a special day, and he hadn’t been around for Christmas. The sun set, however, and there was no sign at all of John Winchester. Dean sat slumped on the sofa, watching the countdown to January the first: only a few minutes to go. Sam had long since given up and crawled into bed, smiling when Dean tucked him in and whispered, “Happy New Year, Sammy,” before dimming the lights.

Dean waited for the new year to come in, so that he could go to bed. His eyes itched. He grabbed a cushion and held it against his chest, hugging it tight so that it would get warm.

_Swoosh._

“Hey, Cas!” Dean said, sitting up quickly. The sudden appearances no longer surprised him since they happened at least once a day, but he was especially happy to see Castiel tonight. Cas seemed to pick up on the upswing in his mood, smiling widely and settling down on the sofa beside Dean.

“Hello, Dean,” he said happily. “I brought you something, so that you wouldn’t have to hug cushions anymore.” He shyly proffered a small, stuffed bear. Dean snorted and grabbed it, turning it over in his hands.

“Where did you get this?” he said, a little contemptuously.

“I made it,” Cas said with a beam, and Dean stopped dangling the bear by one of its paws, holding it firmly round its tummy instead. He looked at it properly – it had short brown fur, a friendly little face and soft, squishy insides.

“I love it,” Dean said sincerely. “It’s brilliant, Cas.”

Castiel blushed and shuffled around to face the TV. Dean shifted his angle, one foot up on the sofa behind Cas and the other one dangling loosely over the edge of the cushions. They watched in silence for a little while, Dean absently turning the bear over and over in his lap. The final ten seconds began counting down; when it reached zero, everyone on the TV cheered and there were flashes of bright light and bangs from the fireworks.

“Dean?” said Castiel eventually; when Dean looked over, he saw that Cas was frowning at the screen.

“Yeah, Cas?”

“What are those people doing?”

Dean looked back at the TV, but it wasn’t showing anything special; just people gathered in a crowd, watching the firework display.

“You’re kidding, right?” he demanded. Castiel looked over at him, puzzled.

“…no?”

Dean grinned.

“That’s people celebrating New Year!” he said. “We blow balloons, light sparklers, wear party hats, see fireworks…” he broke off, looking around their shabby, quiet motel room with a little lump in his throat.

“Why do humans do it?” asked Cas, in the fascinated tone that Dean had come to think of as Cas’ Angel voice. Even after almost a year, sometimes he still seemed so distant, like a firework himself – bright, beautiful, but far away. Dean noticed Cas watching him, and shook himself out of his reverie.

“’cuz they’re happy!” he said enthusiastically. “They get to spend their day with the people they love! Also ‘cuz fireworks are awesome.”

“…oh,” said Cas, taking this in, his expression pensive.

Dean started to fall asleep soon after, his legs pressed against Castiel’s side. Every now and then he could feel the light, absent-minded brush of Cas’ wing over his knees.

 When he woke in the morning, Castiel was gone.

He rolled off the sofa and headed towards his bag, tucked down by the side of his bed. Groping inside it, still half-asleep, he managed to locate a t-shirt and pulled it on – and then noticed the logo, and groaned. It was the stupid joke present that Sam had bought him for Christmas, a blue tee with a teddy bear on it that said _I Wuv Hugs_ in cutesy, swirling letters. Dean was about to pull it off, when his eyes snagged on Sam’s sleeping form. His brother would love him to wear the shirt. Besides, the bear on the front looked a lot like the one that Cas had made for him.

Dean considered waking Sam up, but decided to let him sleep. It was January the first, a holiday… and after all, it wasn’t as though they had anywhere to go, or anyone coming to see them.

Dean poured himself out some juice and sat down at the little table by the window, slurping happily. Maybe today he’d clean the shotgun – it had been a few days – and then he and Sam could watch TV. A day just like any other day, utterly unremarkable –

_Knock knock knock._

“Hello, Dean!” said a loud voice from outside the window, so unexpected that Dean choked a little on his juice, accidentally spitting some out. He wiped his mouth ruefully and stood up, moving so that he could see properly out of the window.

He gasped.

Castiel was hovering outside, his light robe swishing in the breeze and his little feet kicking out in the air underneath him.

Dean flung open the window.

“Cas?!” he exclaimed, looking the angel up and down. He was wearing a party hat, and holding a sparkler, and seemed to be surrounded by lots and lots of balloons; he was wearing some kind of bag on his back, filled with… were those… fireworks?

“Yes, hello,” said Castiel, with a big smile.

“What are you – wh-what’s all that for?” Dean asked, nonplussed. Had Castiel visited some kind of New Year’s party, and brought back some of the toys? But surely he realised that the celebrations were supposed to happen the night before?

“Oh, this?” said Castiel. “I thought this would be appropriate for the occasion.”

Dean stared him up and down, not understanding. He shrugged his shoulders at Cas, whose beam only grew wider.

“You said that people blow balloons when they’re happy, right?” he asked, brandishing his flock of inflatables. There was a pink one and a green one, and Dean thought he could see wings and a sting on the black-and-yellow striped one. “Well… I brought these balloons because I’m always happy when I’m with you!” He looked up at them, his expression adoring. “Plus I really like this bee balloon. Look at it, Dean.” He kicked his legs a little in joy. “And, and, and… I know your eyes are as pretty as fireworks. But I figured that maybe we should see real fireworks!” He paused thoughtfully. “I bet your eyes will look twice as pretty when the fireworks are reflected on them, anyway. Also, look at this sparkler!” He waved the little stick excitedly, tossing a few sparks onto the grass below him. “I thought this would be fitting since I always get to spend the day with the person I lo- Dean?”

Dean had made a strange, strangled noise in the back of his throat.

“Are you alright?” Castiel asked, concern on his face. Of course, Cas didn’t realise that you weren’t supposed to just come out and tell people all that mushy stuff, Dean thought. He didn’t understand that it was weird, and that it would make Dean go all…

Dean pressed his lips together to stop them wobbling, gulping back his tears as best he could.

“Did I – did I forget to bring something?” Cas was saying nervously. “I knew it. I should’ve brought another bee balloon. My apologies, Dean –”

Before he could think twice, Dean leaned out of the window, grabbed Cas by the shoulders and pulled him into a tight hug. He shut his eyes, burying his face against Cas so that his little choking noises would be muffled.

“Oh,” said Cas, as though the deepest mystery of the universe had become clear. “You’re just re-enacting your shirt!” Dean muttered something incomprehensible, and Cas patted him on the back. “Yes, Dean. I wuv hugs too. Oh, no, the sparkler died.”

Dean pulled back, sniffing and wiping at his cheeks.

“You dumbass,” he muttered, his face turned away so that Cas couldn’t see. "Thanks, Cas."

"For what?" Cas asked. "I forgot to bring you an extra bee balloon, Dean. You’re not supposed to be thanking me."

Twenty-three days later, at midnight on Dean’s birthday, they attached a red-printed feather to a firework and watched it soar up into the sky, both looking to the other in time to catch the reflection of the sparks in each other’s eyes.

“You’re stuck with me for another year,” Dean said with a smile.

“Happy birthday, Dean,” Cas replied, turning to watch the last few embers of firework fall to the ground around them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> see the rest of castihalo's comic [here](http://castihalo.tumblr.com/post/92333798845/thanks-cas-for-what-i-forgot-to-bring-you) ^^


	3. Chapter 3

The first time Dean was saved by Cas, he was thirteen years old.

Dean was with his father, on a hunt in Iowa. Sam was old enough to stay on his own in the motel, now, and John had said that he could use his eldest son’s help as an extra pair of eyes since this ghost had proven especially fast and vicious.

In reality, of course, the ghost was new and probably fairly insubstantial. John wanted to break his son into the hunting life gently, work on his skills.

Dean, unaware of this, walked proudly beside his father. His knife was longer and there was a curl of cynicism around the edge of his green eyes. He stamped into the house in his too-big boots, flicking around his flashlight. He could still taste salt on his tongue; he’d dipped his finger in their bag of rock salt earlier, wincing and enjoying the taste of pure white bitterness.

“Look upstairs, Dean,” John said. “I’ll search down here. Remember, ears open, keep moving.”

“Ears open, keep moving,” Dean whispered to himself, as he climbed the stairs. “Ears open, keep moving.”

The landing floorboards creaked ominously, like something out of one of the scary B-movies that he and Sam sometimes caught on the TV. He grinned to himself and pressed on, pushing open a wooden door to his left. He entered with a little caution, finding himself inside a bedroom. Dust coated every surface, and the lacy white curtains billowed and blew like Halloween ghosts in the breeze from the open windows. Dean grasped his gun tightly, turning in a slow circle. There didn’t seem to be anything here, only the detritus of a life abandoned prematurely: an open powder compact, an unmade bed, a pair of shoes lying haphazardly under the dressing table…

_A movement in the mirror._

Before Dean could think, he’d raised his gun and fired off a shot. The noise was deafening. Shards of glass sliced through the air, transparent daggers sliding sweetly over his hands and cheeks like the caress of claws. Dean’s breath came short in his chest – he heard the creak of a floorboard behind him, and swore viciously – he’d fired at the reflection of the ghost, not the ghost itself… and now he felt his limbs seizing with cold; he was slammed against a wall and immediately felt the warm drip-drip-drip of blood running through his hair and down the back of his neck, and now flickering into view in front of him was a woman, gossamer-skinned and grinning, leaning in closer, pressing her cold fingers to his chest…

“Dad!” Dean choked. “Dad –”

The woman’s face contorted in fury and she twisted her hand; Dean felt his heart squeeze and flutter. Eyes wide with pain and terror, he realised that he’d dropped his gun – he couldn’t move his arms to reach his knife – he had nothing but his voice, and his father couldn’t hear him – he had nothing left, nothing at all, he was going to die –

Dean heard the familiar _swish_ of wings.

His heart throbbed inside his chest. Through the veil of the ghost’s body, he watched Cas turn, looking surprised. The angel reached out a single finger and touched it to the ghost’s back, his expression  suddenly colder and more angry than Dean had ever seen before, had even thought possible – he looked _terrifying_. In an ugly hiss of smoke and scream, the ghost squirmed and struggled; Dean yelled as she tightened her grip on him, on reality. Silently, furiously, Cas gritted his teeth and pressed harder. Finally, with a last shriek, the ghost evaporated.

Dean bent double, coughing, getting his breath back as best he could. Cas waited beside him patiently, not touching him. When Dean straightened, he saw that Castiel’s expression hadn’t softened far – he looked silently furious. He was suddenly struck by how much Cas had grown – the angel’s wings were far longer and wider than they had been that first time that he’d met in the park, and they seemed stronger, too, more powerful. Dean, his breath still coming raw and aching in his throat, smiled a little, ignoring his nerves. This was _Cas_ , after all. His friend.

“Nice timing, Cas,” he said.

Without speaking, Castiel held up a single dark feather – one of his own – and ran it lightly along the back of Dean’s neck, colouring the tip of it red with the blood still leaking from Dean’s head wound. His expression forbidding, Cas allowed light and heat to flare from his fingers, incinerating the feather in a short, furious burst of white fire.

“It would be a lot easier to be your guardian angel,” he said, finally, “if you would actually call for help when you need it, Dean.”

“Uh, yeah. I guess it would.” Dean ran his hand over the back of his head, wincing when he felt the lump. Cas’ expression softened; reaching up, he laid his hand lightly over Dean’s. The pain lessened immediately, and the blood stopped flowing.

“Thanks,” Dean said, looking embarrassed. Cas rolled his eyes a little and squeezed Dean’s shoulder lightly. His hands were so much wider than Dean remembered them being the week before, when they’d played cards together until late into the night. He looked into Cas’ face, his soft lips and wide eyes, so recently pulled thin with anger and determination. “You’re getting old,” he said, with a hint of wryness beyond his years. Cas smiled.

“You have no idea,” he said. “Older than fourteen, anyway.”

“Fourteen?” Dean paused, rerunning the past few minutes in his head: Cas’ surprise at finding him in trouble; Cas having a feather ready, and burning it right in front of him; Cas’ expression right now, eyebrows raised, waiting for the penny to drop…

“It’s midnight. It’s my birthday,” said Dean stupidly. “I… I forgot.”

“I imagine your brother will have a surprise waiting for you when you get back to your motel,” said Cas with another smile. “I’m sorry that I don’t have a gift for you myself. It’s a busy time in Heaven.”

“Cas…” Dean said, not sure what he was intending to say. They stared at each other silently for a moment, the days of childish confessions of unashamed love suddenly seeming decades behind them. “Cas, I –”

“Dean?” John Winchester’s voice shocked them both, and they took a hasty step apart.

“Get outta here, man,” Dean said in a low voice, as they heard Dean’s father starting to make his way up the stairs.

Cas nodded but didn’t move to leave; instead, after a moment’s hesitation, he came forwards and threw his arms around Dean’s shoulders. Dean froze for a moment, before bringing his arms up to wrap around Cas’ back. Tentatively, he buried his fingers in the soft, downy feathers on the underside of Cas’ wings. Cas clenched his fists slightly in Dean’s t-shirt.

“Happy birthday, Dean,” he said, and then as John’s heavy footsteps creaked across the hall to the bedroom, he disappeared with a flap of his wings.

“Dean, downstairs is clear, and the basement is too. Did you find anything?” John demanded, stepping into the room.

“Uh, no, sir,” Dean said, dropping his arms back to his sides and trying to look innocent. “I mean, yes, sir!” he amended, as John looked around, taking in the broken glass, the swirl of blood down the back of Dean’s neck. “Yeah, I found the ghost, and… I shot her. It. The ghost.”

John scowled around the room.

“Was she made of glass?”

Dean flushed.

“No, I… shot the mirror, first,” he muttered. “She got me up against the wall. I managed to get her the second time, though.”

John looked furious; Dean quailed under his wrathful stare.

“I should’ve been here,” John said, and Dean realised that his father’s anger was directed at himself. “Couldn’t hear a goddamn thing in that basement, and you nearly got killed.”

“I was fine!” said Dean, stung. “I finished her off, didn’t I? She’s not here anymore.”

John pulled out his EMF meter; sure enough, the readings were minimal, indicating no current activity. John grunted, looking surprised.

“Good work, Dean,” he said. He started to stretch out a hand, but then pulled it back, turning away. “Next time, don’t shoot the mirror like an idiot.”

Dean followed his father out of the room, his throat sticking, surrounding himself in the memory of Cas’ warm arms around him. In his hand, tucked behind his back, he held on tightly to the single dark feather that had come loose in his grip when Cas had flown away.


	4. Chapter 4

The first time Dean went to Heaven, he was fifteen years old.

“So, there’s this thing happening,” Dean had said. “Some of the people at my new school heard it was gonna be my birthday, and it’s any excuse for a party round here, so they’re doing a thing at some guy’s house…”

“You want to burn the feather now?” Cas had said, his mouth twisting downwards slightly. “If you’re going to be out at midnight, it’d be a good idea.”

Dean had shrugged, playing nervously with a loose string on his ratty old t-shirt.

“I was thinking,” he’d said, and then stopped, and taken a deep breath, and started again. “I was thinking, maybe you could come. Uh, to the party. You could come along and we’d find a moment to burn the feather at midnight.”

“You want me to attend your birthday celebrations?” Cas had said, sounding bemused. “Dean, I’m not sure that’s the best idea…”

“You’re my best friend,” Dean had said, taking Cas by surprise with the softness in his voice. “I want you to be at my birthday party. I just…” he’d shrugged again, unsure how to end the sentence. He just… what? He just wanted Cas to be there as he pretended to have anything in common with a bunch of people he barely knew? He just needed to have Cas beside him when the cake came out and he blew out his sixteen candles? He just felt like the party would be no kind of party if he couldn’t look up and see Cas there, watching him?

“I’ll come, Dean,” Cas had said. When Dean had looked up, Cas’ eyes were darker and deeper than Dean had ever seen them before; he felt a little lost, suddenly, as though he’d walked into water expecting a pool and finding a vast, vast ocean.

“Only if you want to,” Dean had said, just to say something.

“I want to,” Cas had replied firmly, with a little smile that stuck in Dean’s mind for the rest of the day.

And so here they were, inside the house of a person whose name Dean couldn’t remember, in a circle of people Dean barely knew, playing Truth or Dare. One of Dean’s least favourite games, but being the Birthday Boy meant doing what you were told, with an enthusiastic smile.

Opposite him in the circle was Castiel. The angel’s wings were hidden tonight: there was no trace of the supernatural about him… and yet, Dean thought, there was still something about him that was special. Maybe it was the way he held himself, a little more upright than everyone else, his legs folded neatly, one hand holding a glass of punch as though it were a Ming vase, careful not to drop it and slightly confused by it. Dean caught his eye and winked; Cas blinked and smiled in return.

“OK, it’s Dean’s turn. Truth or dare?” said a pretty girl to Dean’s left. She’d been leaning a little closer than necessary all night, swishing her hair close to him when she stood up to get more punch, laughing loudly at his lame jokes.

“Truth,” said Dean, without thinking. _Crap._

“Hmm,” the girl said, eyeing him speculatively. “OK, so. You breeze into town, you tell no one about your past, you’re a man of mystery. My question is…” Dean swallowed a large mouthful of punch, waiting for the blow to fall, allowing various cover stories to run through his mind. Cas was watching him, a little concerned, a little exasperated. Yeah, yeah, shouldn’t have chosen Truth, whatever. “My question is… are you attracted to anyone at this party?”

The room in general groaned.

“Damnit, Cassie,” said the dark-eyed girl next to her. “You couldn’t have asked about his time in prison?”

“Or about his secret wife?” added a red-haired girl wearing a Spiderman t-shirt, with a cheeky grin.

Dean’s first reaction had been relief, but now he felt a blush creeping over his cheeks. Was he attracted to anyone in the room? Well, Cassie was pretty, sure. And there was a guy he’d been talking with earlier who’d been kind of hot. And then, there was…

Dean met Cas’ eyes, and his brain seemed to stutter to a halt.

 _Crap,_ he thought to himself, again. How long had that been happening? They’d known each other forever, and sure, he’d always felt something kind of… deep, for Cas? And he’d always known that Cas was good-looking, in a totally objective, completely non-interested way. After all, the guy had amazing eyes, and those full lips, and soft messy hair, and just recently he’d started to fill out and the way that the muscles in his arms looked when they moved was just… nice…

“… it’s a legit question,” Cassie was saying, with a bright laugh, as Dean tuned back in and dragged his eyes away from their new evaluation of Cas’ body. “Come on, Dean. Are you attracted to anyone at the party?”

There was a long pause, before Dean cleared his throat, smiled cockily and said,

“Sure, there's someone.” The circle of people whooped and a few made kissy-kissy noises; Dean willed the blush away from his cheeks and shrugged nonchalantly.

“So go on,” Cassie urged with a grin, “who is it?”

“Uh-uh,” Dean said, “one question only, those’re the rules. Next!”

As soon as the spotlight was off Dean and someone else was taking the heat, Dean breathed a sigh of relief. He chewed at his lip whilst pretending to watch some guy singing Rihanna off-key. Had the way he’d said that made it obvious who he was crushing on? He hadn’t looked at Cas, or at anyone in particular; was that a good thing? What if Cas found out, would he be embarrassed or horrified or, or maybe, could he possibly…

Dean’s thought process ground to a halt again at the thought of Cas reciprocating his feelings. He couldn’t think about that; there was no way that anything would ever happen between them, surely? They’d been friends since forever. Cas would probably think it’d be completely weird. It _would_ be completely weird. And yet, when Dean looked at Cas, somehow he found himself thinking that it would be a good kind of weird. A _really_ good kind of weird. A sort of hot kind of weird…

“Castiel’s turn!” said Cassie, smiling over at Cas. “OK, truth or dare?”

Dean watched Cas deliberating for a moment. He cast Dean a slightly nervous look before saying,

“Dare.”

Dean swallowed. He hoped they wouldn’t make Cas do anything too embarrassing.

The circle conferred for some time about the dare that Castiel would be forced to do. Finally, someone suggested,

“Seven minutes in heaven?” and the group laughed and nodded.

Dean felt his heart sink to his stomach. He felt slightly sick. Glancing over at Cas, he saw that the angel was wide-eyed and tense, starting to stand up; he realised that Cas thought everyone knew he was from Heaven. Catching Cas’ eye, he shook his head quickly and made a placating, sit-down gesture with his hand. Cas swallowed, his adam’s apple moving in his throat in a way that had Dean momentarily distracted, and sat down again.

“Who with?” someone was asking.

“We could spin a bottle,” Cassie suggested. The girl beside her rolled her eyes.

“Yeah, let me just get a bottle of beer we can use, genius,” she said snarkily. “OK, everyone think of a number between one and one hundred. Then Cas can pick a number. Whoever’s got the number closest to his, gets seven minutes in heaven.”

There was a general murmur of agreement.

“Everyone ready?” Cassie asked. Dean sighed and picked a number at random – sixty-seven, the year his father’s car was made. “OK, Cas, go ahead. Pick a number.”

Castiel cast his eyes quickly round the group, coming to rest on Dean. He raised his eyebrows slightly, still looking on edge, so Dean nodded encouragingly.

Cas opened his mouth, paused for a second, and then said clearly, “Sixty-seven.”

Dean released the breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.

“That’s mine!” he said, a little too loudly. “That’s my number.”

There were catcalls and jokes chasing each other around the circle, but they were all good-natured.

“You guys have known each other too long,” one girl said ruefully, looking at Cas.

“Yeah, or Cas is a mind-reader,” said the guy next to her; Cas shifted uncomfortably, and suddenly Dean was blushing because _what,_ Cas really could read minds? And Cas had used that power to pick him?

Well, of course he had, reasoned Dean. He wanted to be with someone he knew – he had no idea what was happening. It didn’t mean anything.

Wait, if Cas could read minds, did that mean that Cas knew about –

To cover his extreme blush, Dean stood up and stepped outside the circle, holding his hand out to Cas and clapping his friend on the shoulder when he approached.

“It’s OK,” he muttered to Cas, with a smile. Cas looked confused, but nodded in return. They were hustled along to the closet in the hall and shoved gently inside, everyone laughing and Dean attempting to join in, even as he freaked out slightly. How was he supposed to explain what was happening to Cas? How was he going to do so without revealing that he wouldn’t… actually… _mind_ , doing all the things that you’re supposed to do at this point?

The door slammed behind them, trapping them in the dark. After a moment, Cas cleared his throat.

“Dean, what are we doing in here?”

“It’s seven minutes in Heaven, Cas,” Dean said, his cheeks burning. He wondered if they were shining red in the dark.

“Oh,” said Cas, sounding confused and laying a hand on Dean’s shoulder; next second there was a _whoosh_ of wings and Dean was squinting against bright sunlight, breathing fresh, flower-scented air and almost falling over, held upright only by the firm pressure of Cas’ hand on his shoulder.

“What the hell?” he exclaimed, staring around. They were in some kind of garden, well-tended and quiet, in a heat that felt nothing like the chill of Illinois in winter. Dean turned to Cas, who was watching him nervously.

“Is this wrong, Dean?” he said. “We could go to a different part, if you want. We still have six and a half minutes.”

“What – what – where are we?” Dean demanded. “And how long have you been able to fly me places?”

“This is Heaven,” Cas said simply, and Dean fell back a step in surprise.

“What, like… _the_ Heaven?” he asked, and Cas shrugged.

“The one that I live in,” he replied. “A small corner of it.”

Dean stared around at the tranquil garden. There was a light, warm breeze, and the sky was completely cloudless.

“One of my favourite corners,” Castiel added, watching Dean take it in. “I like to lie here, sometimes.”

Dean looked down at the grass; it was long, and soft, and it had a strange pattern to it – he sucked in a breath as he recognised the imprint of wings and a body – Cas’ body, he realised. He’d lain here so often that he’d left a dent in the lawn.

Slowly, still trying to believe that he was in _Heaven,_ he sat himself down next to the imprint and patted the grass, inviting Cas to fill his usual spot. Cas, cocking his head slightly, did as he was asked. They lay down together, staring up at the sky.

“Dean?” asked Cas after a moment.

“Yeah, Cas?”

“How do people who are not angels play this ‘seven minutes in Heaven’ game?”

Dean didn’t answer for a moment. He could hear the noise of a river or a fountain somewhere in the distance, a light cheerful sound that trickled through the back of his consciousness, relaxing him.

“It’s a dumb game,” he said. “People go into a closet and… and make out, for seven minutes.”

“Make out?”

Dean gritted his teeth.

“Kiss,” he said.

“Oh!” Cas said. When Dean turned his head to look sideways, Cas was blushing slightly himself, his pink cheeks matching Dean’s. They lay in quiet embarrassment for a moment, their awkwardness almost funny.

“We should probably head back,” Dean said, after a few minutes had passed and the strange tension between them had slackened.

“Yes, Dean,” Cas said, standing up. When Dean followed his lead, he noticed that he’d left his own very light imprint in the grass, right next to Cas, the moulds of their arms almost touching.

“We should come back here some time,” he said, and saw Cas nod in his peripheral vision. He turned, allowing Cas to put one hand on his shoulder. “Seriously, dude, when did you get the juice to be able to move me around with you?”

Cas shrugged.

“My wings have become much more powerful recently,” he said, flexing them slightly, rolling his shoulders under his t-shirt. Dean swallowed, hard.

“I’m down with it,” he said lightly. Cas looked into his eyes, his expression a little ashamed.

“I’m sorry this wasn’t a conventional seven minutes in heaven, Dean,” he said.

Dean shrugged slightly.

“It was a pretty cool seven minutes,” he replied with a grin. _Not as cool as making out with you for seven minutes, but still,_ he found himself adding in his head, and then cursed mentally because Cas could read minds and he’d probably heard that.

Before Dean could do more than send Cas a horrified look, they’d reappeared in the dark closet with a flap of Cas’ wings.

“Time’s up!” said a loud voice, and the door was flung violently open, revealing the group of people behind it, clustered together and lit up by the hall light like a scene from a TV show.

“What did you guys even do?” said Cassie, eyeing their slightly ruffled hair and Dean’s pink cheeks. “You were totally silent. What are you, make-out ninjas?”

Glancing at his watch, Dean grabbed Cas’ hand and pulled him out of the closet.

“We gotta get some air,” he said, striding past the group and throwing open the front door. His classmates were whooping and laughing behind them, but Dean didn’t care: it was three minutes to midnight.

Once the door had closed and they were alone on the porch, Cas allowed his wings to spread. Dean held out his hand, waiting for Cas to pass him a feather.

“You pick,” said Cas simply, moving his wing slightly forward. Dean had to catch his breath; he _loved_ touching Cas’ wings, and so rarely found an excuse to do so.

“Uh, sure,” he muttered as he stepped closer. Cas was looking up at the dark sky, clouded and starless, a million miles in every way from the clear blue infinity stretching out above the garden in Heaven. Dean hovered his hand inches from Cas’ feathers, admiring their sheen and density. He settled on one near the centre of the wing, so that plucking it wouldn’t ruin the symmetry of the underside; reaching out, he tugged lightly. The feather came slightly loose, and under Dean’s clumsy fingers, so did the one next to it. With a guilty glance at Cas, Dean pulled both feathers free, and quickly tucked one into his pocket whilst Cas was still staring upwards.

“This one,” he said, handing it to Cas whilst he extricated his knife from its sheath on his thigh.

“You brought a knife to a birthday party,” Cas observed. “I did some research before attending, and I don’t believe that’s typical.”

Dean laughed quietly as he grazed the tip lightly over his finger. He was starting to see a light, white scar on the skin there, as he always used the blood from the same finger.

He pressed his finger against the soft, dark feather, just as he had the first time.

“Ready?” he said, retrieving his lighter from his pocket. “It’s my turn this year.”

Cas smiled and nodded, holding the feather perfectly upright as Dean reached out and set alight to the topmost part. The flames were slow to catch; they licked lovingly down the feather, consuming the velvety barbs and leaving only the hard shaft, whitened in the heat. When the last sparks had faded, Cas looked up at Dean and melted the remainder in a burst of white light that made Dean squint.

“Done,” Dean said, satisfied. Cas nodded, turning to look out at the dark, still night. Watching his face, Dean was filled with a sudden fear at the realisation that Cas was having thoughts, right now, that he couldn’t hear; he was a real person, and he could decide to leave one day, and never come back. If Cas wanted, he had the choice to fly away and never see Dean again…

“Cas,” he said roughly. “Cas, you… you, uh, don’t mind being my guardian angel, right?” Cas turned to look at him with a frown, and Dean pressed on, feeling more stupid by the moment, “I mean, you’re not bored, or… or fed up?”

“I would not burn the feather if I did not want to,” Cas said softly. Dean nodded unhappily. It was as he thought: Cas was only here as long as the going was good, and as soon as he didn’t want to burn the feather, their relationship would reach its end. But Cas went on, “I did not pledge myself to you lightly, Dean. Becoming your guardian angel was – and still is – the best thing that has ever happened to me. Even if I were capable of being bored or fed up with you… it would not stop me from wanting to be with you. To protect you,” Cas added hastily. “I cannot imagine a future where I do not want to keep you safe.”

Dean looked at Cas with wide eyes, struck speechless, and Cas shrugged.

“It’s true,” he said, looking back out at the night.

Dean swallowed. He should reply, should tell Cas a little of what he’s been thinking recently, or just say how much it means to him that Cas is sticking around. As a kid, it hadn’t really registered that Cas was an _angel_ , because back then he’d just been a dorky little kid with wings. Now, Dean finally felt the… _honour_ , the incredible, terrible honour of being guarded by an angel.

“I…” Dean began, and trailed off, and gave up. “It’s my smile, isn’t it?” he said instead with a smirk. Cas cast him a light-eyed, knowing glance.

“It is definitely a factor,” Cas replied, gravely enough that Dean felt his heart flutter.

In the silence that followed, Dean reached out his hand and tentatively took hold of Cas’. Together, they looked out over the silent, unmoving trees, and up into the sky, heavy with impending storm.

“Happy birthday, Dean,” Cas said.

It was some time before they rejoined the party.


	5. Chapter 5

The first time Dean slept beside Cas, he was eighteen years old.

He’d been out for Mexican with his brother, and after he’d seen Sam back to the motel, he’d decided to hit the bars. He had a fake ID, after all – and what was the use of having one if he was never going to use it to have a little fun? He’d grown in a little beard, just enough scruff to age him by a few years, especially for the occasion.

One sip into his beer, though, and Dean had been feeling decidedly unwell. He could feel his dinner sitting heavy in his roiling gut, hot and nauseating. The bar seemed far too warm and so noisy, the music’s thrumming bass line juddering in his temples and his jaw, and the whiny pop hook setting his teeth on edge. He was sweating, and when he stood up, he found that the floor seemed to be set at a strange kind of angle. Stumbling slightly, he headed for the bathroom.

Two hours of puking later, he was hunched against the wall of his stall, shaking and pressing his lips tight together to stop himself from moaning. He was never going to be able to eat Mexican again. He felt raw all over, stretched thin and feeling vile and dirty. He thought the sickness might be over for now, but there was no way he’d make the journey home. He checked his watch: one in the morning. His father was on a hunt, and it wouldn’t be safe for Sam to be out this late, knife training or no knife training. He wasn’t going to get his brother sent to juvenile hall for beating up a mugger, just because he had the runs and couldn’t make it home. The bar would be closing soon, though…

Of course, there was one other person that he could call.

“No,” Dean muttered to himself, half-delirious with his temperature and dehydration. “No, no, no. Not Cas.”

Outside his stall, there was the sound of wings.

“Noooo,” Dean crooned softly, hitting the back of his head against the wall with his eyes closed. “No, no, no, no, no.”

“Dean?” came Cas’ voice, uncertain and echoing strangely off the tiled walls. Dean shook his head, trying to clear it.

“Cas, don’ come in,” he said stupidly, trying to wedge his foot against the door. “’m totally gross right now.”

“Are you not healthy?” Cas asked matter-of-factly, coming to stand right outside Dean’s stall. “Did you drink too much?”

“No, man, no, I just ate something weird, I guess,” Dean said, every word hurting his acid-burnt throat. “Oh, god, I do not feel good.”

“I can fix that,” Cas said, and Dean saw the lock on his stall starting to move on its own, sliding open to allow Cas access.

“NO!” Dean exclaimed, far too loudly. “Man, I am so gross right now, I don’t want you to see me.”

“Dean,” said Cas’ voice, firm and grounding, “I am coming in.”

The lock opened and the door swung open slowly as Cas peered in cautiously, making sure that he wouldn’t hit Dean accidentally. When he saw Dean sitting miserably against the wall, his face softened into sympathy.

“Come here,” he said, kneeling down and reaching out his hand to gently cup Dean’s scruffy cheek. “You look terrible.”

“Oh, like you’re always an oil painting,” Dean said, huffing a little laugh. “What about the time when you got yourself covered in honey?”

Cas took his hand away from Dean’s face.

“That was an isolated incident,” he said. “I cannot believe you would bring that up right now.”

Dean laughed again, and Cas pressed long, warm fingers back to his cheek.

“That’s better,” he said, and Dean felt the fierce burn in his stomach easing. “There we go.”

“I still don’t feel good,” Dean whined, and then scowled. “I mean, I’m fine. But my head still hurts.”

“You’re dehydrated,” Cas explained, lifting Dean with a hand under each of his arms as though he weighed nothing, and wasn’t _that_ all manner of hot, Dean found himself thinking, despite the foul taste in his mouth and the aches and pains in various body parts of which he was usually blissfully unaware. “I’ll take you home.”

And then they were back at the motel, in the room that John had rented for himself. It was untouched, the bed unslept in.

“I should check on Sammy,” Dean muttered, even as he sank gratefully to sit on the bed. There was a rustle of wings, and then Cas said,

“He’s fine, snoring a little. I brought you this, drink it.”

Dean took the proffered glass of water and downed it in a few slow, large gulps; when he handed it back to Cas, there was already another one in the angel’s hand.

“This one has some medication in it,” Cas said. “The packet said it would help you to rehydrate.”

Dean laughed a little and took the glass, drinking it all as Cas watched. He could feel the painful burning in his head fading slightly, curling up lightly around his temples like a pacified dragon.

“You should sleep,” Cas said quietly, taking back the second glass. “That will complete the healing process. You will feel better once you have rested.”

“Wait, Cas!” Dean said, as Castiel tensed his shoulders, ready to fly away. He looked tired, too, Dean thought, looking up into his face. He felt suddenly streak-thin and small, as though he might shrink to nothing at all, fade away into the air like a shadow or some other dark, insubstantial thing, some lost creature of the night. Cas’ eyes were on him, though, looking at him all the way through like they always did. “Don’t go,” Dean said, hating the imploring note in his cracked voice.

“Dean?” Cas said, sounding weary and confused.

“Just… you’re tired, right? Just lie down here. We can both sleep,” Dean said, trying to sound gruff and careless.

“I’m not sure that’s…” Cas began and Dean reached up and grabbed his forearm.

“Please,” he said, not a question, no concession in his tone that he was asking for anything. Cas seemed to unbend, like the stem of a plant straightening when the cruel wind stops pushing it down and down and down to the ground.

“I will sleep on this side,” he said, pushing Dean aside lightly with one hand. Dean grunted in acknowledgement and shifted to make room, pulling off his jeans with a total lack of shame brought on by tiredness. Beside him, he could hear Cas undressing, too, so he waited until the bed dipped and he was sure that Cas was safely under the covers before he looked over. Cas was tucked up warm, the blanket pulled up to his chin against the cold, his eyes already closed. The frown-lines on his forehead were gone, leaving it smooth and soft-looking and kissable –

Dean flopped down onto his pillow, rolling himself up in his half of the covers. It felt so good, _so good_ to hear Cas’ soft breathing next to him as he shut his eyes. He could dimly remember doing this as children – building forts out of pillows and blankets in the middle of the night and falling asleep together in them, or playing games until so late in the night that they’d collapse into dreams together, the tops of their heads touching over the low coffee table as they rested on their folded arms – but they’d never done this. He’d never _asked_ for this, for Cas to lie next to him and fall asleep. He wasn't even entirely convinced that Cas even did sleep: whenever they’d drifted off together before, Cas had always followed his lead, breathing deeply and in rhythm with him, pressing his eyes closed, but never sighing or speaking or snoring at all. Maybe he’d enjoyed relaxing next to Dean, or maybe he’d liked the idea of sleeping – of allowing his mind free rein to fill itself with strange, unconnected images in an effort to understand the chaos of the day.

“’Night, Cas,” Dean murmured, opening his eyes to find Cas facing away. His eyes roamed over Cas’ brown hair, curled softly at the nape of his neck, where a little skin showed above his old black t-shirt. Dean found himself wanting to shuffle forwards, to press his lips there gently and fall asleep with his chest pressed close enough to Cas’ back that he’d be able to feel the thump, thump, thump of Cas’ heart against his own ribcage. “Thanks for coming to get me,” he said instead.

Cas hummed and unfolded one of his wings a little, just enough that the feathers gently brushed Dean’s face. Dean sighed deeply as they blocked out all the background light, leaving him wrapped up tight in a dark world that smelled of fresh linen and Castiel.

In the morning, when he woke, Cas had already gone. On his side of the bed were a few long, dark feathers. Dean picked up one of them and stroked a finger along its length, feeling the barbs flicker over his fingertip like the closed pages of a book that he wanted to read, but could not understand.

**

That year, on Dean’s birthday, before they set alight to the feather, Dean turned to Cas with determination in his eyes. He’d been planning this for a while.

“Look, Cas,” he said, and saw in Cas’ eyes a flicker of the fear that he sometimes felt himself – that nervousness that their relationship could not last, that one day Cas was going to realise that he was good for nothing much at all and leave to find someone worthy of his time. “I was thinking. Man, you know I love you being my guardian angel.”

“Dean, if I’ve offended or irritated you in some way…” Cas interrupted, his expression one of slow, painful horror. With a clutch at his heart, Dean realised how much this meant to Cas, this… relationship, or whatever they had. He wasn’t the only one that thought this was important, he thought, the idea making his heart stutter.

“No, no, man. Not at all. I was gonna say, I love you being my guardian, but you know… I don’t want this to be one-sided, you know?”

Cas tilted his head quizzically.

“Just… recently, you’ve been looking pretty wrecked when I’ve seen you,” Dean said, a little more hesitantly. “Really tired, and stuff. You don’t have to tell me why. But I just wanted you to know that if you… if you needed me, for anything, ever, you just have to say.” Dean swallowed. “I don’t have wings or magic mind-reading powers, but I can shoot straight and I’ll fight for you until there’s nothing left of me, so. I might be good, if your back’s against the wall.” Dean cleared his throat, not meeting Cas’ eyes for a moment as he gathered his thoughts, reined himself back in. He’d said more than he’d meant to, but when he did finally raise the courage to look up, his expression as flat-eyed and nonchalant as he could make it, he saw that Cas was smiling – Dean’s favourite version of Cas’ smile, the one with the lightness in his eyes and crinkles at the corners, soft and bright like a sun coming through white curtains.

“Thank you, Dean,” Cas said, holding out a feather, watching as Dean made the familiar nick in his finger. “I will remember that.”

“You better,” Dean said. “You’ll have to be better than me at asking for help, too.”

Cas’ smile turned a little darker, exasperation at the corners.

“Anyone would be better than you at asking for help,” he said dryly.

The feather caught faster than usual this year; it burned quickly, without smoke. Cas met Dean’s eyes in the light of the dying embers, his wings fanned out behind him, more beautiful and powerful than Dean had ever seen them before.

“Happy birthday, Dean,” said Cas.


	6. Chapter 6

The first time Dean helped Cas, he was nineteen years old.

It was the middle of the night and he was at someone else’s house, having managed to insinuate himself into a group of college seniors on a night out. He’d been hunting with his dad and his brother, and needed to blow off a little steam.

He was sitting quietly on the sofa, listening to a pair of girls next to him complain about their absolute _demon_ of an English lecturer. They were both very pretty and he’d been flirting with one of them earlier, but his heart wasn’t really in it. The hunt had been too long and too gruesome for him to be able to focus on the sweeter, lighter side of life with any enthusiasm. He wished, suddenly, that Sam were here. His brother knew how he was feeling, and probably felt the same way, but they wouldn’t have to talk about it. Or maybe Cas, because even though Cas liked to talk about feelings more, it never felt as gut-wrenchingly strange to be honest with Cas. Plus, there was the way that Cas tilted his head as he listened, sometimes, and the way that he’d fold his hands neatly before replying if he was worried, and the way that he’d give Dean that light, knowing look, just on the edge of a smile.

Dean took a sip of his bottle of beer, and tried to stop thinking about the shape of Cas’ mouth. It was ridiculous. He’d been thinking about things like this for _years_ , now, and nothing that he felt had changed, nothing had faded. In fact, it was only growing stronger every time Cas appeared – each time that they sat up late and talked, eating pizza that Cas bought from Rome or dumplings hot out of Beijing or cookies from Dean’s favourite place in Los Angeles. Each time that Cas told him a joke, in that serious, deadpan tone of his. Each time that Cas breathed, honestly, because in Dean’s eyes it seemed like he could do no wrong. Dean wished he could chalk his attraction up to something specific that Cas did, or had – because then maybe he could look for that quality in someone else, someone more within reach, someone who might actually feel the same way – but the fact of it was that there was no one part of Cas that Dean could single out. It was the whole of him, the way he was combined, his exact mix of traits and mannerisms and expressions. Not to mention his body, which was frankly _stunning_ these days, his shoulders and back heavily muscled because of the way that he used them when he flapped his wings, oh _god_ , his wings…

Somewhere outside, there was the sound of something heavy falling down, clattering against the gravelly drive. Dean stood up, one hand reaching for his knife.

“Whoa, relax, man,” said one of the girls, looking up from her conversation. “It’s probably just a cat or something.”

“Yeah, sure,” said Dean genially. “I’m gonna go check it out, just in case.”

His pleasant smile disappeared as soon as he turned away, making for the front door. Throwing it open, knife in hand, he stepped out into the night. The porch light flickered on automatically, and in its dim, yellowy glow Dean could make out the rough shape of a human being – a brown-haired human being, with strange, dark shadows leaping out of his back…

“Cas!” Dean said, pulling the door closed and running down the porch steps, crouching beside Cas. “What the hell, are you OK?” Unable to see well, he ran his hands swiftly up and down Cas’ body, pausing when he reached a patch of wetness on the back of his t-shirt. Holding up his hand to the light, Dean saw that his fingers had come away red.

“Cas,” Dean said tightly. “Come on, dude, we gotta get you to – a hospital, or something…”

“No,” Cas groaned, trying to sit up. “No, I’ll heal, Dean. It’s taking a little longer than usual because I have sustained – _ah_ – sustained many injuries in the past few hours.”

“Cas, I… I don’t know what to do,” Dean said roughly, helping Cas to sit upright, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder. “What can I do?”

Cas glanced around them, looking smaller and more lost than Dean had seen him in a long time. He shifted his arm, wrapping it under Cas’ arms and across his back, holding him closer.

“Is there a bed somewhere?” Cas murmured, resting his head against Dean’s shoulder.

“There’s our motel,” he said. “But it’s pretty far. There’s one closer, just a couple of streets away, if your wings could…?”

Dean hadn’t even finished his sentence before they crashed, hard, against the floor of one of the motel rooms.

“Jesus, Cas!” Dean said, standing up gingerly. “OK, you wait here, I’ll go pay for the room.”

It was lucky that he’d brought his wallet out with him, and not just decided to hustle pool to earn his beer this evening, Dean thought as he paid for room number 12 with a credit card. The receptionist eyed him suspiciously when he was specific about the room number, but she shrugged and put the transaction through when he slipped her a ten-dollar bill.

When he got back to the room, Cas had managed to crawl onto the bed and was lying there, inert and silent in the darkness. Dean closed the door, feeling his way over to the bed and flicking on the little bedside lamp. Cas grumbled and rolled over, his wings flopping uselessly on the mattress on either side of his body.

“Sit up, Cas,” Dean said, perching next to him and kicking off his shoes. “Come on, we gotta get that blood-stained shirt off you.”

Mumbling discontentedly, Cas allowed Dean to pull him upright. Reaching for his knife, Dean sliced neatly through the blood-caked fabric, pulling the t-shirt away from Cas’ torso. Once he could see his friend’s body, naked and vulnerable under his hands, Dean hissed through his teeth. It was covered in livid purples and greens, and beneath his wings, there was a vicious slash, just starting to seal up and stop bleeding.

“Cas,” said Dean in a hushed voice. “What the hell happened to you?”

“Just a skirmish with another angel,” Cas said lightly, trying to stretch out his bruised back and groaning. “I have to find my rank in the garrison, and there’s a lot of competition.”

“You look terrible,” Dean said, still shocked.

“Like you’re always an oil painting,” Cas said wryly, and Dean laughed. He transferred his attention to Cas’ wings: they were mussed and ragged in places, the feathers torn out and battered and skewed messily. Tentatively, he ran his hand over the top of the left hand one, smoothing out the ruffles. Cas went very still, arching a little into Dean’s touch.

Encouraged, Dean brought up his other hand, gently laying flat a few of the feathers that were sticking out the most, and removing a couple that were only barely still attached to the wing. He worked steadily, focusing entirely on the pattern of the feathers, creating a little pile of discarded ones to one side of his crossed legs. When he’d finished tidying and pulled his hands away, Cas made a small noise in his throat and shuffled back slightly, lifting his wings up as high as he could to better expose the place where they joined his back. Gently, hesitant again, Dean tucked his fingers into the downy feathers there, and began to move them in slow, firm circles.

Cas let out a long, contented sigh that ended in a little moan as Dean moved higher, massaging the muscles that criss-crossed his back.

“Feel good?” Dean said, his voice coming out lower and rougher and more intimate than he’d expected.

“Yes, Dean,” said Cas, sounding so loose and relaxed that Dean couldn’t help but smile slightly, pleased with himself. He moved his hands up to Cas’ shoulders, working out the tension there with his strong, steady hands. They sat in comfortable silence, Cas breathing deeply and calmly. When the muscles felt pliant and soft, Dean lowered his hands, resisting the temptation to drag them slowly down Cas’ back, wrap them around his waist, run them up over his chest.

“Let’s get you some rest,” he said unsteadily, gently pushing Cas into the right position for sleep, tucking his head down on the bottom corner of the pillow, the left hand side, like Dean knew he preferred. Cas’ legs were bent up awkwardly, so Dean leaned down and moved them, laying them neatly curved. He walked over to the bathroom and grabbed a towel, coming back and pulling it under Cas’ body, to make sure that he wouldn’t bloody the sheets with his healing wound.

That seemed to be it; there was no more he could do.

“Well, uh. ’Night, Cas,” he said, picking up the feathers from the centre of the bed and moving to leave.

“Dean,” said Cas’ voice, muffled against the pillow. “Stay.”

Dean made no argument, didn’t even bother to pretend to himself that he wasn’t pleased. He slipped off his jeans and crawled into bed, making sure that the covers were neatly over both of them to keep out the winter chill. Cas sighed, facing Dean, his face smooth and untroubled, his mouth slightly open. When Dean had settled into position and stopped moving, Cas shifted his uppermost wing over, so that it covered Dean completely. Dean, feeling tiredness curving round his mind like a soft blanket, couldn’t resist reaching up a hand and tweaking a feather cheekily. Cas smiled into his pillow and batted Dean softly with the top of the wing, making him laugh.

When Dean woke up the next morning, for the first time ever, Castiel was still there.


	7. Chapter 7

The first time that Dean took Cas to see a movie, he was twenty-three years old.

John had gone west for a few days to check in on Sam at Stanford, so Dean had taken a simple ghost case in Missouri to keep himself busy in the meantime. He’d been driving around in a hire car, playing his Led Zeppelin tape at full blast as he swung around corners and raced down highways, searching for clues to the ghost’s identity. He’d spent all of ten minutes in the library before getting bored and heading out to talk to people instead, reaping the knowledge he needed from the old regulars at the local bar. The hunt itself was easy enough; the ghost was tied to reality by an old hairbrush, which he found in an old jewellery box in the bedroom and incinerated swiftly. Job done.

Of course, that left Dean sitting in Missouri with nothing much to do for a couple of days. He could take another case, of course, but there was nothing in the immediate neighbourhood and besides, it felt as though he’d been working non-stop for months and months now. His father hadn’t even allowed them to take Christmas off. In a way, Dean hadn’t minded. It would have felt too strange to celebrate without Sam there.

He spent most of the next day in bed, luxuriating in the feeling of getting enough sleep, for once. He finally rolled upright at midday, stumbling into the shower and letting the water pound down over his shoulders, muscles unwinding, skin reddening under the heat.

When he got out of the shower, Dean took a long, long look at himself in the mirror. He was starting to look old, he thought. He had no crow’s feet, and certainly no laughter lines, but there was something about his eyes, some sharp-clawed sadness that seemed to reach from far, far back – a fell beast sprawling in his past, whose weight he felt more heavily with every passing day.

He shook himself and turned away from the mirror. Today was going to be a good day, one where he didn’t think too hard about Sam’s absence and John’s disappointment and his own stupid inadequacies. Today, he was going to have fun.

When he’d towelled himself off and dressed quickly, Dean sat down on the bed and said quietly,

“Cas? You there?”

There was a pause. Dean bit his bottom lip; more and more often these days, Cas couldn’t come when he called. He always arrived eventually, though, hollow-eyed and exhausted, collapsing onto the sofa beside Dean and stealing a little bit of whatever he was eating.

“Hey, you don’t even need to eat!” Dean would scold, making no move to slap Cas’ hand away.

“Fries taste good,” Cas would murmur in return, settling in to sleep against Dean’s shoulder.

Today, though, after a few seconds of silence, there was the tell-tale _swish_ of wings, and Dean turned around to find Cas sitting cross-legged at the top of the bed, looking healthier and happier than he’d seemed in a long time.

“Dean,” Cas said with a smile, by way of greeting. Dean grinned in return.

“Hey, Cas. So, uh, I was thinking,” Dean said, running a hand down the back of his neck nervously. “I know you’re busy with Heaven business and you don’t really have time for this, but, I was gonna go see a movie today and I wondered if you wanted to come?” Dean paused, and Cas opened his mouth to answer, looking hesitant.

“It feels like forever since we spent some time, man,” Dean added, knowing that he was pushing it but not wanting to hear Cas’ muttered apology, or the _whoosh_ of his wings as he left.

“We ate pizza two days ago,” said Cas, but his face had softened and he shrugged. “If you’d really like to see a movie with me, then I’ll come.”

Dean shook his head.

“I can’t believe you still say stuff like that, after all this time,” he said, standing up and grabbing his coat. “Haven’t you figured out yet that I like hanging out with you?”

Cas blushed and stood up, stretching out his wings. They looked healthy and neat, but Dean reached over and fussed them a little anyway, tugging down some of the downier feathers so that they were lying flat. Cas watched him doing so, looking slightly confused, before reaching out and putting his hand on Dean’s shoulder. In a wingbeat, they were standing outside the cinema.

“Someone’s gonna notice us appearing out of nowhere one day,” Dean said conversationally, leading the way inside. “There’ll be stories about us in the newspapers.”

“Two men appear in crowded street,” Cas said. “That’s a headline any journalist would kill for.”

Dean shoved into Cas good-naturedly with one shoulder, before taking out his wallet and smiling brightly at the guy behind the desk selling tickets.

“Two to see Lord of the Rings, please,” he said. He turned round to talk to Cas as the guy scrabbled in the till for his change, and found that Cas was already leaning slightly over his shoulder. Their faces were so close, Dean could see the streaks of lighter blue at the centre of Cas’ eyes, and the light, chapped lines on his full lips. He swallowed. Cas was looking at him questioningly, one eyebrow raised, not moving away.

“It’s the sequel,” he said quietly, incredibly aware of how his own mouth was moving and how his breath was hitting Cas’ cheek. “So you might not get all of the story.”

Cas shrugged, pulling away slightly. Dean found himself breathing out slowly, as though he were relieved – or perhaps… disappointed? The thought was barely a whisper in his mind. He huffed and turned back to the man behind the desk, holding out a hand for his change. Perfect, he thought. He’d been doing fairly well, recently, in trying not to think about Cas in that way.

Of course, that was a lie, and Dean knew it. He thought about Cas _in that way_ every time he smiled that stupid wry little smile, or rolled his eyes, or stretched out his wings; he couldn’t _stop_ thinking about it when they were lying together in bed, or curled up on the sofa like a pair of commas, each of them a pause, a breath, an expectation.

But that didn’t matter. The fact was that he was doing well, because he was pretty sure Cas had no idea how he felt. That was the most important thing. If Cas found out and it pushed him away… Dean shuddered, flinching away from the thought, like he always did.

Some days, he’d wake up and think how stupid it was to be scared, how easy it would be to just… like now, as they walked together towards the screen, it would be so simple to reach out and put his hand on Cas’ arm, stop him walking, pull him close and press his lips to Cas’, gently at first but then becoming harder and more desperate, and then maybe Cas would reach his hand like _that_ and Dean would bite his lip like _that,_ and Cas would back him up against the wall and press him firmly up against it whilst he –

“Dean?”

Dean snapped back to reality. He’d stopped walking, and was standing frozen in the hallway, staring into space – probably with the most stupid, vacant, dreamy look on his face. Cas was watching him curiously, his head tilted to one side.

“Is everything alright?” Cas asked, taking a step closer to Dean. Dean ran his hand through his hair, shaking his head in an attempt to clear it.

“No, uh, I mean, yeah. Let’s just watch the movie,” Dean said gruffly, shouldering past Cas, reaching back at the last minute to drag him forward by the sleeve of his coat.

The theatre was half-full when Dean and Cas sat down, but their view was good. The adverts were just ending as they took their places, and as the music kicked in, Dean shuffled happily in his chair and let his worries fade. He was here, watching Lord of the Rings, with his best friend Cas. He couldn’t ask for more than that.

Well, he could, he thought to himself, casting a swift glance at Cas, who was paying rapt attention to the screen. But he wouldn’t. Not today.

**

When they burned the feather that year, they were standing outside a motel in Wyoming, and Dean was shivering in the cold.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he found himself asking, as Cas made to light the feather on fire. Cas frowned, looking up into his eyes.

“Why wouldn’t I?” he demanded.

“I don’t know…” Dean said, looking down at the floor. “You’re busy, and… and I feel like, maybe you’re more tired and things are harder for you because instead of being in Heaven, you’re spending your time with me.” Dean shrugged. “I’m just sayin’… if your priority isn’t pizza and a trashy movie anymore, then I get it, you can let this go. I won’t be mad.”

There was a long silence. When Dean finally looked up and met Cas’ eyes, he saw that they were filled with an emotion he couldn’t quite name – a strange, sad, reaching-out sort of feeling, he thought, though he had no idea what it meant.

“You’re a fool, Dean Winchester,” said Cas quietly, and set the feather on fire.

Dean watched it burn, heedless of the white stripe it left across his vision.

“It’s been said before,” he said, trying to make light of it. Cas huffed a laugh and rolled his eyes.

“Happy birthday, Dean,” Cas said, as Dean turned to go inside. When Dean turned around to reply, Cas had already gone.


	8. Chapter 8

The first time Dean told anyone about Cas, he was twenty-six years old.

His father was missing, and even though Dean had asked Cas for help, he knew full well that his father was more than capable of covering his own tracks. Besides, Cas was busy pretty much all the time; it wasn’t as though he had a spare weekend to go searching for John Winchester whilst the angels of Heaven fought and squabbled amongst themselves.

And no Cas meant that either Dean had to search alone, or…

He’d been missing Sam something crazy these past few years, anyway. Maybe it was finally time to pay a little visit. He wouldn’t ask Sam to ditch his entire degree, his whole life, but the least his brother could do was help him out here, right? John was his father, too. If nothing else, Sam had a right to know that his dad was missing.

“Dad’s on a hunting trip,” he said, bright-eyed with false confidence, sick with worry. “And he hasn’t been home in a few days.”

And that had been all it took, really. Sam cared about John, Dean was sure. He couldn’t stand by and do nothing whilst his father was MIA, possibly stranded or captured or injured, possibly… worse.

Dean didn’t want to think about that.

In the car, they talked over the points of the case, Dean filling Sam in on everything he knew.

“I’ve had a… friend of mine, check out the place where he was last seen,” Dean said. “He got squat, so I guess it’s up to us now.”

“A friend? You?” said Sam, smiling for the first time since he’d seen his brother.

“Yeah, a friend, me,” Dean said, a little indignantly defensive.

“Is this the kind of friend you met at a bar and left in a motel, or…?”

“What? No, no, nothing like that.” Dean kept his eyes focused on the road. Sam fell silent, expecting more details.

Dean felt the words building up on his tongue like a wave ready to roll to shore; he’d kept Cas a secret for so long, and he was so _proud_ of him and of knowing him and he wanted so badly to tell someone about it, to explain everything. But Sam would hate it, right? Cas was a supernatural being, something that under normal circumstances, they’d probably be hunting.

Dean didn’t fancy his chances against Cas these days, so he was glad that it wasn’t going to come to that. Maybe Sam would understand? He’d diverged pretty far from the expected course of action himself, when he left to go to law school. Maybe he wouldn’t judge Dean too harshly?

Not that there was anything to judge, Dean thought, with an angry edge. Cas was a good person, a _brilliant_ person. He was loyal, and kind, and caring, and strong, and…

“Jesus, Dean, would you spit it out already?” Sam said, looking over at his brother curiously. “You’ve been making faces to yourself for the past five minutes.”

Dean cast him a dark look before sighing and steeling himself.

“His name’s Cas,” he growled finally. “My… my friend, his name is Cas.”

“O-kay,” Sam said slowly. “Great. So, what’s the big deal?”

“Yeah, uh, he’s an angel,” said Dean in a rush. “Not the Hallmark kind, or even the churchy kind, really. He’s got wings, though. They’re black. You wanna see one of his feathers?” He reached his arm around behind his chair, blindly feeling for his bag. Sam pushed it away, looking shocked.

“Dean… you made friends. With an _angel_?” he said incredulously. "Is this a joke?"

Dean swallowed hard and shook his head.

“What - uh, right. Right, well." Sam hesitated. "How long ago?”

“Uh…” Dean shifted in his seat. “A while, I guess. He’s my guardian angel. We burn a feather every year on my birthday and that makes him my guardian angel. I know it sounds crazy, OK, but we hang out sometimes, you know, and get take-out and talk about stuff. He’s good, he’s got this smile and he’s really powerful, and he’s kind of… what?” Dean broke off. Sam was watching him, a smile slowly growing on his face.

“’He’s got this smile’?” he questioned. “What are you, sweet on him?”

“What? Ha, Sam, that’s ridiculous. He’s an angel, there’s no way anything could ever…”

The smile had slipped off Sam’s face.

“Holy crap,” he said. “You really are sweet on him.”

Dean gritted his teeth and clenched his fists on the wheel.

“Don’t say that too loud,” he said. “I don’t know what he can hear. And I think he might actually be able to read minds, but he’s never said anything to me about… about stuff that I think, sometimes.”

“Dean… this is bizarre as hell,” Sam said. “I mean, like. Angels are real?”

“Apparently,” said Dean with a shrug. “According to Cas, they’re mostly total dicks. At least they keep themselves to themselves up there in Heaven. Wouldn’t want to deal with the likes of them, right? I’ll stick to ghosts, thanks.”

“Mmm,” Sam said absently, obviously still thinking over what Dean had told him. After a couple of minutes of silence, he said, “Listen… this is a lot to take in.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet,” Dean said, attempting a smile. “Took me by surprise, for sure.”

“But I want you to know… it’s cool, I guess. I mean, if you trust this Cas guy, and you really like him, then it’s cool. I’m happy for you.”

Dean’s throat stuck for a second. He cleared it roughly, and blinked hard.

“That’s, uh. That’s real nice of you to say, Sammy,” he said in a low voice. “Hey, you wanna stop off at the mall on the way to Jericho? I reckon we could buy ourselves some dolls and braid their hair. Or maybe we could just do yours, hell, it’s getting long enough.”

“Shut up, Dean,” Sam said automatically, the familiar response putting the lump back in Dean’s throat. Jesus, he’d missed his brother. “Like I’m the one with a thing for an _angel._ He does look… at least a little human, right?”

“At least ninety percent,” Dean reassured him. “It’s just the wings.”

“God. Right. The wings.” Sam laughed, and the sound made Dean grin. “What do you say when you see him? Halo, Cas, how are you?”

Dean reached over and smacked Sam lightly on the back of the head.

“You deserved that,” he said.

“Sorry,” said Sam. “I don’t wanna… _harp_ on about it. Please tell me he actually has a harp. And a dress.”

“Robe!” said Dean defensively. “He used to. He changed to jeans and a t-shirt a while ago. He cuts slits in the back, for his wings to go through.”

“Right. Right,” Sam said solemnly. Dean leaned over and hit him again.

“Shut up, Sam,” he said, but he was smiling as they turned off the highway.

**

On Dean’s birthday that year, Sam watched as they burned the feather.

“This is OK, right?” Dean had asked Cas the day before. “He’s just curious. He wants to meet you, and he wants to see how it works.”

“Of course, it’s fine,” Cas had said with a smile.

“I should’ve told him ages ago. Better late than never, I guess?”

“Better late than never,” Cas had repeated thoughtfully. Dean knew that look on his face, had been able to see Cas absorbing the phrase into his vocabulary. “I would like to meet Sam. I’ve heard so much about him, I feel like I already know him.”

“Yeah, we’ve… we’ve talked about you a bit, too,” Dean had said, a little awkwardly. “He’s cool with the idea of us being… you know, friends. Says if I think you’re cool, then he’s fine with it.”

“Oh. Good,” Cas had replied, a faint tinge of red on his cheeks, and _damn_ , if Dean hadn’t fallen just a little bit harder, because he can still make Cas blush after all these years by telling him he thinks he’s cool.

“And I do think you’re cool,” Dean had added, just to see Cas’ flush deepen. “So we’re all good.”

“You – you are cool as well, Dean,” Cas had said, and then they’d gone back to playing cards.

Now, out in the cold, dark park, Dean watched Cas watching him as he pressed his bloodied finger to the feather. Sam was standing a little way away, close enough to see but far enough that they had a little privacy.

“You remember the time we attached the feather to a firework, and watched it burn in the sky?” he said softly. The hard line of Cas’ mouth softened, and he blinked slowly, looking away.

“I brought you balloons,” he remembered, shaking his head at the memory. “And I wore a party hat. That was one of the most ridiculous things I’ve ever done –”

“I loved it,” Dean interrupted. “I loved it, Cas. It’s one of my favourite years.”

“I liked the first one,” Cas said. “And the one where we were at the party.”

Dean smiled, looking into Cas’ eyes, lit up silver in the midnight moonlight.

“It’s good to be here,” he said quietly, hoping that Cas would understand. _It’s good to be here with you,_ he would’ve said, had he the courage. _I’m glad you’re still here. It’s amazing that you haven’t given up on me. I miss you when you can’t come down from Heaven and I don’t see you for days. I lo-_

“It’s good to be here,” Cas repeated, and for a moment Dean thought he saw the same ache, the same yearning in Cas’ eyes that he felt in his bones, that he carried every day.

The feather caught alight in a burst of white fire. Sam whooped in surprise, laughing when the light faded, and coming closer.

“That was awesome,” he said, stepping forward and holding out his hand to Cas. “It’s good to meet you.”

Cas looked at the hand bemusedly for a second; Dean reached out and grabbed Cas’ fingers, placing them in Sam’s.

“It’s a greeting,” he explained, when Cas sent him a confused glance.

“Ah, yes, the handshake. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sam,” Cas said warmly, allowing his hand to be shaken.

When they were all stretched out on the long sofa in their motel room, watching a Spanish soap opera together and occasionally throwing popcorn at the screen when Pepe or Maura made a bad decision, Dean allowed himself to relax. He could feel his heart brimming full and hot and fierce like a stoked furnace inside his chest. Cas was here, and Sam was here, and they were laughing and getting along and joking with each other.

Even if he could never be _with_ Cas, at least he could be with Cas, Dean thought. At least he was here, spending time with him and Sam.

“Happy birthday, Dean,” said Cas, looking over at him. Dean smiled softly in return, and took a long draught of his beer.


	9. Chapter 9

The first time that Dean didn’t recognise Cas, he was twenty-nine years old.

Or perhaps older, because time passes strangely in Hell. Dean had gone in as a frightened, bloodied soul who called for his brother, and now he was a broken, bloodied soul who called for his next victim. He was relentless. He was not himself.

When he heard the drums and the cavalcade of the angelic horde spearing their way through the depths of the underworld, Dean turned his eyes to face the light, the blood caked on his eyelids cracking as he looked up for the first time in decades. He hissed through his teeth and stepped back, all afraid and angry, preparing for a fight.

When out of the light there came a figure, a tall, black-winged human form, Dean bared his teeth and ran forwards. Better to attack now, he might have a chance against this one angel –

The figure held out a hand and pinned him by the shoulder, holding him still with no apparent exertion. Dean felt himself burning where the hand gripped him tight, the touch like a brand.

“Dean Winchester,” said the figure, its voice deep and high at the same time, tenor and alto and soprano notes falling neatly over each other like stacked arrows, piercing Dean’s ears in an aching trio of righteous divinity. Dean struggled and growled, twisting and contorting his tainted soul like a serpent, a cobra spitting and biting in a blind rage. “Dean Winchester –”

The hold on Dean’s shoulder tightened, and the figure stepped closer. It lost the burning white halo of light around its head, revealing bright blue eyes and soft, mussed hair.

Dean froze.

The figure leaned in close, so that if Dean wanted, he could slash at it or bite it. Dean held himself absolutely still. Deep in his mind, far away like a satellite or a distant star, there was a stirring, a confusion.

“Dean,” said the angel, its voice low, intimate, without any supernatural reverberations. It was looking right into Dean’s coal-dark eyes with – warmth, with… recognition?

“Get back from me,” Dean choked out over his iron tongue, through his rusted-red teeth. “Get _back._ ” He flexed his elongated fingernails threateningly.

The angel’s only response was to smile, its eyes filled with an incomparable sadness. Dean felt the emotion in his throat, slipping down into his chest, pouring over his filthy, calcified heart like acidic rain.

“Get back!” Dean insisted, raising his clawed hand as though he were about to strike.

The angel shook its head, holding his gaze.

“I am here to save you,” it said. Dean laughed, wheezing over the smoke and foulness in his lungs.

“I don’t need you to save me,” he sneered. “I don’t even know who you are.”

“I am your friend,” said the angel.

“Yeah,” Dean hissed. “Like I’m going to trust you.”

The angel took another step, even closer, pressing its forehead against Dean’s. This close, Dean could see the salt lines down the angel’s face, the wetness still on its cheeks. It had been crying the whole time, Dean realised. He repressed the urge to lift a finger, wipe away the tears. The angel’s eyes were so deep, so intense, their gaze a painful ringing bell in Dean’s mind. And out of the abyss – the swirling, stained, blood-soaked abyss inside Dean’s head – there came an unnameable feeling, a panic. A recognition.

“If I can trust you,” Castiel said, slowly and deliberately, “then you can trust me.”

He reached his free hand backwards, the other still maintaining its scorching grip on Dean’s shoulder. Bringing one wing forward, he pulled free a single feather. He reached forwards, swiping it gently against Dean’s throat. When he pulled it back, it was covered in blood.

“We missed your birthday, Dean,” Cas said, his mouth pulled down at the corners, fresh tears falling down his cheeks. “But it’s better late than never.”

In a blast of white light, the feather was burned.

Dean stared and stared into the angel’s blue eyes. The ache in his chest was unbearable, a pain that Hell had never visited upon him. Unable to stand it, he dropped his gaze to the floor. He blinked hard, and when he did, a single drop of wetness fell to the ground.

Dean stared down at it, unable to comprehend its existence. It was a tear. A human tear.

Dean looked up, out of bright green eyes.

“Cas,” he said.

The angel almost broke. Dean watched his whole face shift, the sadness and the anger and the fear all folding into a relief that was soul-deep, that left Cas gasping and pulling Dean against his chest, tight and rough and desperate.

“Dean,” Cas said, crossing his arms over Dean’s back. “Dean Dean Dean Dean Dean.”

“Cas,” Dean whispered, allowing himself to be held for the first time in forty years. “Cas, Cas, Cas, Cas, Cas.” He sobbed, a little. “ _Cas_.”

After a moment, Cas pushed Dean away slightly, returning his hand to its place on his shoulder.

“I’m here to save you,” Cas said again. Dean nodded.

“About time,” he said, and Cas laughed, a little hitching, ragged half-cry, but still a laugh.

“I need a moment to – to gather my strength. It’s been a long journey to get here.”

Dean nodded, feeling the initial wave of happiness rolling off him, bringing other, crueller tides in its wake. Dean remembered everything that he’d done in the past four decades, and suddenly, thinking about it was more painful than pleasurable. He clung feebly to his moral numbness, the twisted indifference to pain that he’d built up over the years.

“What’s the first thing you want to do when you’re out?” Cas asked, swishing his wings. They looked torn and dirtied – because he’d just been through Hell, Dean said to himself wryly, the thought like a hot, guilty stab of anger to his gut, slicing through the demonic inertia. He considered Cas’ question for a moment.

“Mm. You remember that time you brought the fireworks and the balloons?” Dean said. Cas nodded slowly. “Man, I want to get myself one of those freakin’ bee balloons. It looked so awesome and I never got one.”

Cas bowed his head and let it rest, briefly, on Dean’s shoulder. When he lifted it back up, his shoulders shaking a little with wearied, aching mirth, his forehead was smeared with red.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said, his voice cutting in and out through his dry throat – but when he raised Dean up by his shoulder, gripping tight and flying upwards with strong, powerful wingbeats, his voice was clear as a peal of diamond bells when he announced,

“Dean Winchester is saved!”


	10. Chapter 10

The second time that Dean didn’t recognise Cas, he was thirty-three years old.

He was inside the bunker, sitting on the steps up to the front door with his head buried in his hands. He’d been there for a long time. Sam was in his bed, not moving much, but alive, and healing. The angels had fallen from Heaven; Dean had watched them tumbling out of the sky in a fiery hail exactly two weeks before. And Cas? Cas could be anywhere. As far as Dean knew, he could even be…

No. _No._ Dean wouldn’t even let himself think about it. Cas had to be OK. He always was, right? Even after everything they’d been through, Cas always somehow came out alright. This time would be no different. Dean just had to wait, and there’d be a knock on the door –

_Bang. Bang. Bang._

The knocks were faint, but the sound still made Dean whip round, startled. He pulled out his knife and climbed the steps, approaching the front door with caution.

“Who’s there?” he called out, his voice low and raspy with exhaustion and worry.

“Dean?” said a thin voice from outside the door, and then there was a muffled thump. Dean swallowed, gritted his teeth and, with a heave, swung open the door.

Sitting on a bed of fallen leaves, his legs collapsed beneath him like dry twigs, was a man. Dean couldn’t make out much more than a messy brown head of hair and a scruffy beard, since the man was looking down at the fraying knees of his dirty old jeans, his head tilted, face hidden from Dean’s eyes.

“Excuse me, can I help you?” Dean asked, his tone on the edge of threatening.

The man looked up, and Dean went absolutely still.

He dropped the knife.

“ _Cas,_ ” he said, his voice cracking a little. He dropped to the floor beside his friend, pulling him into a tight, one-armed hug. “Cas, oh god, I thought you were…”

“I’m here,” Cas croaked through pale, peeling lips. Dean rubbed his hand along Cas’ cheek, running his thumb along Cas’ scruffy jawline. He was _here_ , Dean thought. He was alive.

“Nice look,” he said out loud. “Very Purgatory vintage style.”

Cas, too tired to laugh, smiled a little and coughed.

“Can I…?” he gestured with one thin-fingered hand towards the bunker’s open door.

“Yes – _god,_ yes,” Dean said, standing up and then reaching down to haul Cas to his feet, pulling on his outstretched hand and steadying him by placing his hands on Cas’ shoulders. Something about the weight of him felt different, somehow, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. It hardly mattered, anyway. Cas was _alive_.

He kept saying the words over and over to himself as he helped his friend down the steps and along a few corridors, finally pushing open the door to his own room and dropping Cas on the bed.

“OK,” he said, moving away to search in his chest of drawers for a first aid kit. He rummaged around, pushing aside his socks and pulling out the little red packet. “Tell me where it hurts.”

When he turned around, however, he found Cas already passed out on the bed, breathing shallowly but regularly. Dean watched him for a few moments, unable to stop a smile from pulling up the corners of his mouth, and then stepped forwards to gently push Cas’ legs into a more comfortable position, and cover him with a light blanket.

“Good to have you home, Cas,” he said as he left the room. As the door closed behind him, Cas pushed his nose against Dean’s pillow and breathed deeply, contentedly, for the first time in a long time.

Dean’s good mood was infectious. When he went in to tell Sam the good news, bringing with him a bowl of hot soup and a new book, Sam found himself smiling wanly.

“He just turned up this morning, ‘bout eight o’clock,” Dean said, dropping the book onto the bedside table and placing the bowl of soup on top of it. “Been sleeping ever since. I’m gonna wake him up in a few hours’ time, if he hasn’t come round. Guy’s gotta eat, he looks like he hasn’t had a solid meal in days. Hey, maybe he could fix you up, now he’s here?”

“I don’t know, Dean,” Sam cautioned. “He fell, I guess. That means his grace is gone. Maybe other things, too…”

“Well, you’re getting better, anyway,” cut in Dean breezily. “Doesn’t really matter. I’ll see you later, OK?”

He stomped off happily down the corridor, not even having to wonder about what to make Cas to eat. Dean made a righteous burger, and he was going to put all his skills into action.

He took his time cooking, allowing the shy sense of happiness in his stomach to uncurl slowly, and spread its wings out across his chest. Sam and Cas were both going to be OK. He was going to make sure of that. And after they were both at one hundred percent, they could all start doing things together. They’d go on hunts, and go out for meals, and watch movies… they could do Christmas as a family, and… oh, celebrate birthdays together! Dean decided he’d have to give Cas a birthday. Maybe it could be the day after his own, so that when they burned the feather at midnight, it’d be on the line between their two special days.

Yeah, that sounded good. Dean carefully pushed away all thoughts of angels, and demons, and big battles left to fight. They’d earned some time out, right? Even if it were just a few months. Time to pull themselves together, get things sorted.

Dean flipped the burger, humming happily. Maybe he could finally watch the full Lord of the Rings trilogy with Cas, show him what he’d missed on either side of the Two Towers. Man, it felt like an eternity since they’d sat together in that theatre. Or maybe –

“Hello, Dean,” said Cas. Dean spun around, still holding the pan with the sizzling burger inside. Cas had shed his dirty clothing, and pulled on a fresh t-shirt and pair of sweatpants belonging to Dean. They looked good on him, Dean thought, the t-shirt especially. Something stuck in his mind about Cas wearing his top – he’d never done it before –

“I’m making you a burger,” Dean said, to fill the silence. He held up the pan and wiggled it invitingly.

“Dean,” said Cas quietly, but Dean ignored him.

“And I was thinking, we could watch a movie later,” he said.

“Dean, I have to –” Cas tried to say.

“And then, after that, I was thinking that I could maybe brush your wings out for you. Make them all nice and clean, you know. They must be messed up pretty bad, and –”

“Dean, they’re gone.” Cas’ eyes were fixed on the floor.

Dean heard the words, loud and clear. They didn’t properly register, though.

“What?” he said dumbly, and Cas looked up fiercely into his eyes.

“They’re gone, Dean! My wings, they’re gone! My wings were burned away, every single feather…”

Dean dropped the pan and switched off the stove. He moved quickly round the table, light-headed and disbelieving, to gather Cas up roughly inside his arms, pressing his cheek against Cas’ stubble, muttering soft, reassuring nonsense under his breath.

“Hey, hey, it’s OK. It’s alright. It doesn’t matter, Cas. You’ll do fine without them. And when we –”

“No,” said Cas sharply, “not we.”

He took a deep breath, pressing his cheek against Dean’s a little harder for a moment, before taking a step back, his arms down by his sides.

“It’s over, Dean,” he said, sounding numb. “We’re done.”

Dean felt the world crumpling, fast, like a tin can being stepped on.

“You don’t mean that,” he heard himself saying, from a distance. “Cas, you don’t mean that. After – after everything we’ve been through…”

“You don’t understand,” said Cas, unable to meet Dean’s eyes, staring instead at his hair, his cheeks, his chin, drinking in Dean’s face as though preparing for a drought. “I don’t have any more feathers, Dean. I cannot be your guardian angel any longer. It’s over.”

Dean gaped at him.

“Cas, you know that ceremony was always just some crap that Gabriel made up to screw with you when you were still a fledgling,” he said. “You can’t think that I don’t want –”

“Dean, I have no grace,” Cas said, the cracks running through his voice as deep and dark as chasms, endless abysses. “I cannot defend you. I cannot watch over you. I cannot save you, Dean, like I once did, like I always… always tried to do. I’m nothing.” He shrugged a little, a sad, quick movement of his shoulders that reminded Dean of the way his wings used to twitch, back when he was young. “I have to go, Dean, you must see that.”

“No,” Dean said hollowly. “I don’t.”

Cas opened and closed his mouth once, twice, before saying,

“There are no feathers left, Dean.”

Dean looked into the broken face of Castiel, the fallen angel, and squared his shoulders.

“Come with me,” he said grimly, taking Cas by the wrist and leading him along the corridors of the bunker, back to his room. Cas followed him silently, unresisting.

Once they’d reached his bedroom, Dean dropped Cas’ arm and crouched down, pulling out an old box from under the bed. He beckoned Cas over and, after a moment’s hesitation, held it out to him.

“This is dumb, OK?” he said, trying not to let his lips tremble, fighting back the tears. “This is so stupid. But I’m glad I did it, now. Open it.”

Gingerly, Cas reached out and took hold of the box in his frail, dirty hands. He weighed it carefully for a moment, before looking up at Dean once, and then flipping the lid open.

He stood completely still for a few moments, before reaching into the box and drawing out one long, dark, shiny feather. He held it up to the light, as though checking its authenticity, his expression utterly unreadable.

“This is mine,” he said, after a few seconds.

“Yeah,” said Dean. “Yeah. There are loads of ‘em in there, at least – at least sixty, I think, probably more. You lost them every now and then, and I’d just pick them up and keep them, it became a habit…” Dean shrugged, trying to control his mouth, which was pulling down at the corners. He wanted to cry, very badly, but instead he said, “So, what do you think?”

“What do I… think?” Cas asked, still twisting the feather round and round between his fingers, as though unable to believe it was real.

“Well, do we have enough there to burn the feather for as long as we need to?” Dean asked, his voice thin with the strain. “Will you – stay?”

“Dean,” said Cas. “I can’t be your –”

“You were never just my guardian,” Dean snapped. “Right from the start, that wasn’t all that I wanted. And that’s not what I’m asking for now. I’m asking if you’ll stay, OK? If you’ll burn one of these feathers with me every year I’m alive. Will you _stay_ , Cas.”

Cas stared at him, wide-eyed.

“You want…” he started, and then trailed away. Dean huffed out a breath, suddenly furious with Cas for being surprised by this.

“Of course I damn well want,” he said angrily. “Of course I do. You’re my best friend. I’ve known you for so long and for most of it,” Dean swallowed past the words sticking in his throat, gathering his courage, “for most of it, I’ve been completely in love with you. And that’s got nothing to do with your wings, or your grace, or being the almighty seraph Castiel. It’s your dumb face and your smile and the way that you think, and who you are around me, and who I am around you, and who we are together, you get it? And now you just want to – to leave, you just want to say that it’s over, because you don’t have feathers to burn anymore? Because you don’t have grace? That’s total crap, Cas, and what I’m trying to say is, is that, is that when we used to light the feather, I was never lighting it for you being my guardian angel. I was lighting it for you being there next to me. I was lighting it for us, together. I was lighting it for your stupid goddamn face. And I want to keep doing that for as long as I can, because I’m never going to stop wanting any of those things.”

Dean took a deep breath, and stared at Cas, feeling unravelled and a little as though he’d just neatly laid out his guts for Castiel to inspect. Your stupid goddamn face? Way to go, Winchester.

Cas was completely still for a few more seconds, holding onto the feather box tightly in both hands.

Then, in one swift, flowing movement, he threw the box down onto the bed, raised his hands to cup Dean’s face, and kissed him soundly on the lips.

Dean made a low, deep noise of surprise, but didn’t pull away, not for a second.

He leaned into the kiss, wrapping his arms around Cas’ back, running them up and down his shoulder blades. Cas’ lips felt so warm on his own, and when he opened his mouth, Dean _groaned_ , and suddenly Cas’ hands were on his shoulders, forcing him down onto the bed, pushing him back.

Cas fell forwards, one leg on either side of Dean’s body, his expression serious and slightly fierce with determination. Dean felt an answering flare of want, his thoughts, his whole world shrinking down to the skies in Cas' eyes, the rough, stubble-scruffed lands of his cheeks, the soft islands of his lips. Cas watched him for a long, long moment, long enough that the tension grew until it was almost unbearable, and Dean was about to reach up when Cas leaned down, one hand in Dean's hair, fisted just tightly enough to pull a little. He kissed Dean again, licking in and out of Dean’s mouth, rough and rhythmic – and Dean was gasping and moving his hands lower, running them over Cas’ ass and gripping slightly, and then Cas’ questing fingers found the hem of Dean’s t-shirt and slid up over his tummy, onto his chest.

When Cas finally pulled away a little, his mouth was already reddened and slick, his pupils blown wide.

“I have wanted to do that,” he growled, “for over fifteen years. Damn it, Dean.”

“Damn it, Dean?” Dean said indignantly, propping himself up on his elbows so that he could argue, and then becoming distracted. He started pressing hot, slow kisses against Cas’ arched neck, working down to the base of his throat. “Cas, you were the damn mind-reader,” he said, between kisses. “You were supposed to be reading my thoughts and knowing that I wanted to make out with you against a wall. Or on the bed. Or anywhere, really.”

Cas made a little noise as Dean’s kisses trailed up the other side of his throat and he reached a sweet spot under Cas’ ear. Dean paused, and then kissed there once more, open-mouthed and long, and Cas made the sound again: a little humming moan that Dean wanted to hear forever, on repeat, every second of the day. He reached up and ran a hand through Cas’ hair: it felt strange, sticky and a little unkempt.

“Okay,” he said. “Cas, we’ve gotta get you cleaned up. Go take a shower, alright?”

Cas sighed.

“I don’t want to,” he said simply, leaning down to kiss Dean once, twice, three times, each one lazier and warmer than the last.

“Hmm,” grumbled Dean. “Well. What if I joined you in there?”

Cas leaned back, pretending to consider.

“I suppose that would be acceptable,” he said, slowly.

When they emerged from the bathroom together an hour later, Sam had already wandered through and eaten Cas’ burger.

“I’ll just have to make you another one,” Dean said, allowing Cas to press him up against a kitchen counter; Cas smiled softly against his mouth for a moment, looking deep into Dean’s eyes. “It might be ready a little late, though.”

“Better late than never,” said Cas, and kissed him.

**

That year, when they burned the feather, Dean had a surprise for Cas.

“Meet me outside,” he’d said to Cas. “I’ve gotta get something ready first.”

He’d been planning this for months.

When Cas stepped outside into the cool January night, he was greeted by the sight of Dean Winchester, lit up by the glow of a few strategically-placed flashlights, surrounded by balloons and fireworks, and wearing a party hat.

“Dean?” said Cas uncertainly, walking closer.

“I thought these would be appropriate for the occasion,” Dean said, with a grin, “since recently, I’ve been getting to spend every day with the person I love. Oh! And look what I found!”

His smile radiant, Cas accepted Dean’s proffered gift – a bee-shaped balloon, with white wings and a yellow-and-black striped body.

“You didn’t get one for yourself,” he pointed out.

“Don’t you get any ideas. That one’s to share,” Dean said, digging him lightly in the ribs.

Together they tied a red-printed feather to a firework, and watched it fly up, up, up, the anticipation building, before it exploded in a shower of sparks. When Dean looked down, he saw that Cas was watching the reflection in his eyes.

“Still a dumb sap,” he said, kissing Cas lightly on the forehead.

“Assbutt,” Cas shot back, making Dean laugh out loud.

“Oh, man, I’d forgotten about that one,” he said. “Assbutt, yeah. Definitely original.”

Cas watched Dean laughing, his expression full of disbelieving happiness and quiet wonder.

The world wasn’t perfect, of course. The bad guys were still the bad guys and they were still doing bad things, as bad guys tended to do. But at moments like this, with the cool night air in their lungs and warm, slow kisses on their lips, it all seemed to fade away.

“Aw, adorable. Smile, guys!” Sam said, approaching from the bunker with a digital camera in his hands. He clicked the shutter before they could even react, the flash blinding in the darkness. It was sure to come out horribly, but that wasn’t really the point.

Dean stood looking up at the night sky, his brother on one side and Cas on the other. His eyes were a little red, but he was smiling bright and clear as the rising sun.

“Happy birthday, Dean,” Cas said.

And it was. Not for the first time, nor for the last, it was.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Лучше поздно, чем никогда](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6987982) by [Abygael](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abygael/pseuds/Abygael), [melamoryblack](https://archiveofourown.org/users/melamoryblack/pseuds/melamoryblack)




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